


Season 10: The Mickey and Ian Story

by J_Q



Series: The Mickey and Ian Story [1]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Canon Compliant, M/M, Season/Series 10, all shameless warnings apply, for all 10 seasons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-01
Updated: 2020-12-06
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:55:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 25
Words: 136,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27329893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/J_Q/pseuds/J_Q
Summary: In preparation for season 11, I’ve created a canon compliant (99.9%) fic for season 10 that covers everything Gallavich from Mickey’s arrival in season 9 up to their wedding night. It fills the gaps, explains their motivations and deals with the past. I’ll post a chapter each morning so that it’s complete before season 11 airs.
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Series: The Mickey and Ian Story [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2046503
Comments: 1032
Kudos: 476





	1. Season 9 Recap

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve inserted links to Tue’s YouTube videos that they created for each Gallavich related scene in season 10, so you can quickly rewatch them if you want the full experience. Thank you Tue! <3 Reach them at [Tue](https://www.youtube.com/c/Tuesmick/featured) or on Instagram @damngallavich
> 
> Once again, I get to team up with Steorie and share the amazing artwork she created for season 10. Try not to swoon from the beauty of it all. Thank you Stephi! <3 Reach her on Tumblr [@steorie](https://www.tumblr.com/search/steorie)
> 
> I owe Doddz a HUGE debt of gratitude for doing almost all my Shameless based research and red-penning all 140,000 words. JWC. Thank you Doddz! <3 Read her masterpieces at [Doddz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Doddz)
> 
> I owe the amazing people I follow on Tumblr for their meta analysis of the show and for giving me so much more insight into Mickey and Ian that I would have had without their brilliance. Thank you Smart Women of Tumblr’s Gallavich Fandom! <3 Find them all under my following list on Tumblr [@jackieq](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/jackieq)
> 
> I’d really love to hear your thoughts on the decisions I made regarding the show if you are interested in sharing them. The comment boxes are open for business ;0. Thank YOU for reading! <3

**What did you miss on season 9 of Shameless…**

**Beckman Correctional**

_“I rolled on the cartel I was working for, and in exchange, guess who gets to pick where he gets locked up?”_

Weeks after hearing those words, Ian still found himself momentarily stunned, a disbelieving “holy fuck” caught on his tongue whenever he spotted Mickey across the prison yard or common room. The low-key sadness that had shadowed him the last three years was gone, but on his more vulnerable days, he sometimes questioned his sanity, certain that Mickey was still in Mexico and his mind sought the only solace it knew.

This morning though, the source of his contentment was ten feet above him, leaning heavily on the guardrail just outside their cell and watching Ian talk to one of his buddies from the infirmary. Amid the ceaseless chatter of 50 men socializing in such a small area, Ian had been complaining to his fellow medical assistant about the latest reject doctor sent to them by the state to oversee the prison’s medical needs, but now Ian’s attention was elsewhere. Specifically, ten feet above him.

Since Mickey was alone on the catwalk, Ian excused himself and tried to take the stairs sedately not wanting every asshole in cell block A to know how fucking eager he was to be next to his boyfriend. It may not be a secret that Ian was off limits, but it didn’t mean that he wanted to be labelled Mickey’s prison bitch.

Even if his eagerness suggested otherwise.

“I need to go to the barber and shave my head,” Ian said as soon as he was within earshot of Mickey. “Dude in the infirmary has fucking lice.”

Mickey’s eyes traveled to Ian’s hair, bright orange roots clearly showing against the ridiculous black dye job. “Get no complaints from me, man.”

“How was work?” Ian asked, ignoring the tingling on his head that the simple thought of lice produced.

“Profitable.”

“Legal, I hope.”

Those blue eyes finally shifted to Ian’s face. “There’s no such thing as a legal prison hustle, Gallagher. Don’t matter if it’s sex, protection, drugs or selling fucking ‘smores. The state says no currency exchange behind bars.”

Finding a way to make extra income wasn’t a new conversation between them, since Mickey was determined to not waste years of potential earning simply because he was locked up. Ian, however, wondered if he’d ever catch on to the hustle, an activity that clearly ran like blood through Mickey’s veins. While Ian more or less hovered near the definition of a mark, Mickey never missed an opportunity to exchange currency.

“Everyone in here hustles, even the fucking COs, so the most that’s gonna happen is losing some privileges,” he continued. “Don’t need their old school fucking phone privileges anyway. Smartphones rule in here. And they can stick my fucking library privileges up their ass.”

Ian wasn’t inclined to agree on that last one. The prison library was his oasis from this place because inmate interest in reading books and newspapers had dwindled so much that he was often the only guy in the room. Plus he’d discovered a lot of interesting shit in books.

“‘Sides,” Mickey was on a roll, “you _legally_ work your ass off for these corporate motherfuckers, cleaning piss pots in the infirmary but you ain’t getting enough cash on your book to buy decent soap, let alone get a fucking haircut. Why pay this shithole to shave your head when Jigsy down there does it for a third of the cost?”

Ian followed the direction of Mickey’s finger, landing on a tall, skinny black guy playing Texas hold ‘em with three other men. As they watched, he dropped a stick of Old Spice deodorant onto the table beside three packets of Ramen noodles. Jigsy had apparently upped the ante.

“Was he a barber on the outside?” Ian asked, unable to stop his fingernail from scraping along his scalp.

“Nah, his Pops was though.”

“How does that qualify him to cut hair?” Ian frowned in confusion.

“Dude does a mean fade. Anyway, you’re a prisoner, bitch, not a fucking runway model.”

“Hmm, is that an option?” Ian tapped his chin thoughtfully. “Maybe that could be my prison hustle.”

Their eyes clashed, and Ian detected something primal in Mickey’s gaze, possessive and Ian reveled in it. “Nude modeling for the art therapy program, maybe?” Ian suggested, trying to keep the happy grin off his face.

Mickey’s gaze shifted to Ian’s bare shoulders then over the fit of his white tank top, while his lips pursed peevishly. “Wouldn’t be worried about the hair on your head then.”

“You think Jigsy would give me a Brazilian?” Ian couldn’t suppress his laughter, and Mickey even cracked a smile.

“Only if he wants me to break every bone in his hand.”

Warm contentment spread throughout Ian’s body. His whole life, he’d needed to be special, important, valued and he knew that for Mickey there was no currency more valuable than Ian. The squeak of men on the metal stairs pulled him from his thoughts, and he glanced quickly at three inmates as they passed behind.

“‘Sup, Gallagher?” Roy Franchetti followed the question with a flash of nearly perfect white teeth, set in a narrow face marred by a red scar above the man’s left cheekbone.

Ian nodded a quick hello, then cut his eyes to Mickey in case he read the situation as another inmate’s attempt to poach on his territory and not just a cordial hello. There weren’t many inmates on their block who still thought Ian simply provided sexual favors in exchange for Mickey’s protection, which meant that everyone knew that Mickey had something to lose.

“Not much, Roy.” Ian nodded, waffling between a smile and a frown unsure which would deflect the situation quicker.

“See ya ‘round,” Roy added, giving Ian a look over his shoulder before joining his buddies who’d continued on without him.

Mickey stared down at the activity below, jaw clenched. “Next time tell me if he fucks around with you, Ian.”

“I can take care of myself.”

“That shit,” he paused to wave vaguely at Roy’s disappearing back, “isn’t about you. It’s about me, so it doesn’t matter if you can take care of yourself or not. What matters to that asshole is figuring out how far he can push me. Don’t let the idea that we’re in a sweet camp fool you. Just cause these motherfuckers aren’t hassling your ass daily don’t mean they wouldn’t stab you as soon as look at you.”

“Stab me in the eye?” Ian retorted.

“Yeah, in the fucking eye.” Mickey shot him a look, voice low. “The fucker hasn’t forgotten that I missed his goddamn eye years ago. Asshole’s waiting for a chance to get even.”

They continued to look at each other, and Ian heard the unspoken words. _Learn how to jail, Gallagher. Can’t watch your ass every second_.

“By fucking with me.”

“Yes. That’s how it works.”

“Okay,” Ian said, feeling that ever present twinge of guilt and shame bubble up to the surface again. While his status as a new fish made him a target for hazing, Mickey’s status as a Milkovich also made him a target, and Ian was his weak spot.

A shout from below caught his attention. Jigsy was standing, leaning over the table clearly trying to be intimidating, but whatever the other guy said calmed him down and he took his seat. Ian decided to get back to the original topic.

“I need to see Jigsy about a buzz cut tonight cause I got a slip that I have a visitor tomorrow. Not sure who’s coming though.” Mentally scanning his visitors list, he added, “Wouldn’t mind seeing Fi. We left shit between us kinda unfinished.”

Mickey’s nose crinkled in annoyance. “What the hell she been doing that she’s too fucking busy to visit even once?”

Ian shrugged. “She’s going through a ton of stuff.”

“Yeah? Like a three-year prison sentence?” He was clearly on another roll. “Was she going through _stuff_ when you were pulling all your Gay Jesus bullshit?”

Ian leaned forward to rest his forearms on the railing next to Mickey. Without the benefit of his meds, he was as capable of running a prison hustle as he was of lighting a fucking match to his life, but he wasn’t about to suggest that he start giving relationship advice to inmates or fucking marrying them again. That period of his life felt like a dream or an episode of a bad sitcom.

“Where the fuck were the rest of the goddamn Gallaghers, huh?”

Quietly, Ian reminded him, “It’s hard to help someone who doesn’t wanna be helped, Mick.”

“Got that right, especially when you’re 2000 fucking miles away,” Mickey snapped, leaving Ian to wonder if any amount of time or distance would stop Mickey from feeling responsible for him.

They returned their attention to Jigsy like they were watching the World Series of Poker, and as with any conversation that even had the hint of past trauma, they let it drop before it could lead to either confrontation or resolution.

“Anyway,” Ian said, watching the Barber of Beckman stand up in disgust over his losing hand. Ian couldn’t see the cards clearly, but one of the other guys had laid out a hand full of red. “Looks like I could offer Jigsy some deodorant as payment for my buzz cut.”

“Yeah,” Mickey still sounded irritated, and mild panic tried to take hold of Ian. They were fine, he told his nattering brain. They loved each other. But his brain swiftly reminded him that love had never been enough for them. The mild panic bumped up a notch, and he looked at Mickey hoping to read something positive in his expression. The irritation on his face gave way to acceptance when their eyes met.

“Come on, Gallagher,” he said, lightly bumping his shoulder into Ian’s arm. “You can hit up Jigsy to shave that monstrosity on your head, while I win you some Ramen noodles, cause I don’t see any giant stuffed animals in the pot.”

“My hero,” Ian teased, following him down the metal stairs. “I’d drop to my knees if you won me some fucking strawberries or any decent fruit for that matter. I don’t ever wanna see canned fruit cocktail again as long as I live.”

“That right? What would it take to get you to stop flossing your fucking teeth?”

Ian laughed out loud, then checked himself when a few guys at the table they were passing paused their game of checkers to look at him.

“A juicy peach,” he answered quietly, getting a set of perfectly arched eyebrows in response.

**Outdoor Visiting Area**

[Fiona visits Ian in prison](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u7cyZnaWPMw&fbclid=IwAR0tIHaN3Q8YwClbOC3KPDVfmp9LoIqI7TybpWaHtT48nmqXJNP8nOlLn_k)

“Go as far away from here as you can, and don’t ever look back, okay?” Ian said softly but firmly as Fiona’s eyes filled with tears again. “I’ll always be here for you.”

He tried not to think of the implications of that statement and what it meant for his own life goals, but he had a reason to stay now. Fiona did not. He knew she’d used up all her caregiving, maybe even for a lifetime, and he wanted her to have his blessing.

“Liam,” she said, sucking back her tears and giving him that classic Fi smile. She pulled her hands back to her lap, all business now.

“Not much I can do from prison.” He shrugged helplessly, avoiding the guilt trip that his mind wanted to take him on. “Could be up to a year till I’m out.”

“Yeah...you plannin’ to stick around after that?”

“Sure, where would I go?”

“Ya got Mickey back. Figured he’d be your first priority, ya know?” She looked closely at him, eyes soft like they always got when she tried to penetrate his inner sanctum but feared his rejection.

Ian swallowed around the dryness in his throat. He’d built such a huge barrier around his feelings for Mickey, especially when it came to his siblings, that he wasn’t even sure where to begin.

“I wanted to say I got shit wrong,” she continued, hands back on the table between them. “About Mickey. If I ever try a relationship again, gonna make sure it’s love like you guys got.”

He looked down at their hands, the inches between them. “Yeah, play your cards right, he can be what stands in the way of you lighting a match to your life.”

“That how you feel, sweetface? Like he’s all that you got?”

She hadn’t used her childhood nickname for him in years, but it seemed fitting since it had been that long since they’d truly connected like this, open and accepting of each other.

“In some ways, yeah.”

Nodding, she smacked her hand against his. “Well, I’m proud of you, and I’m fuckin’ sorry I didn’t tell you that more.”

When he scoffed, she bent closer to him, catching his eye.

“I mean it. You always find your way back to who you really are, and I’m just tryin’ to figure out who I even am.”

“Cause you never had a chance to find out.”

“It’s been a shitshow, hasn’t it?”

He laughed. “And that’s on our good days.”

“God, I’m gonna miss ya guys.” Her eyes filled again and Ian inhaled deeply.

“So about Liam…”

**Phone Bank**

Turning his body away from the line of men waiting to use the phone, Ian listened to his brother accept the call then he spoke into the receiver, “Hey, Lip.”

“Hey, man, how’s it going in there?”

“Good. You?” He figured he’d let Lip bring up the pregnancy, if he wanted to talk about it.

“Same.”

“Really?” On second thought, he decided to push a little since it could be awhile until they talked again. “Anything _new?_ ”

“Uh, I guess...I’m gonna be a father.”

"Congrats!"

"Thanks, I think."

“I actually knew,” he confessed. “Fi visited earlier today and mentioned it.”

“Yeah? Probably a good thing there were guards around to referee, huh?”

Ian laughed. “Yeah, no buckets of water for me to toss on her.”

“Shame.”

“Nah, I was kinda being a dick then. I’m more mature now,” he teased, leaning a forearm along the top of the phone, so his conversation wouldn't be overheard by the guy at the phone next to him.

“Prison is known for growth and development.”

Holding back a snort, Ian added, “It is when your boyfriend is locked up with you.”

“Been a fairy tale, has it?”

“Basically,” Ian agreed. “We’ve been getting to know each other again the last two months. He's fucking hilarious.”

“Christ, you’re gonna need parole to toughen you up,” Lip teased. He could hear the sound of a motorcycle revving in the background then a door slam shut. “How’s Mick doin’?”

“Yeah, good. Got some new scam cooked up.”

The familiar click of a lighter traveled down the phone line. “Working on his retirement portfolio?”

“As long as it doesn’t involve more jail time.”

“You’re shackin’ up with a Milkovich, Ian. Don’t hold your breath.”

“A reformed one, if I have anything to say about it.”

“Hm, you definitely got some sway over the guy,” Lip agreed.

“So you got a girlfriend.”

“I don’t know what the fuck I got,” he sighed and Ian imagined him inhaling deeply, calming himself with nicotine. “Her name’s Tami.”

“You like her?”

“I think so.”

Ian laughed again. “Well, that’s a start.”

When they lapsed into silence, Ian brought them back to the other topic he’d called to discuss. “Before we run out of time, I wanted to talk to you about something.”

“What’s on your mind?”

“Liam.”

**Chow Hall**

The dining area was dim and quiet aside from the hum of two microwaves as Ian watched Mickey from his position at one of the long tables. Across the room, one other guy was hunched over a table, earbuds plugged into an mp3 player, newspaper spread on the table in front of him. If Ian tried hard enough, he could imagine that he and Mickey were alone in their kitchen about to have a late night snack.

One of the microwaves dinged, and Mickey yanked open the door, pulled out a plastic container, flipped the ingredients then determined it was ready for consumption. The second microwave finished, and he returned to the table where Ian waited, placing both plastic containers in the space between them.

“Woah, fancy,” Ian said, picking up the hardened disc of noodles with his fingers then dropping it back when it burned him. “And fucking hot!”

“Yeah, that’s what microwaves do. Heat shit.”

Ian wrinkled his nose at the sass but smiled as he picked up the disc again. “So the famous Ramen cookie, huh?”

“Yup.” Mickey emptied his pocket before sitting down, tossing an assortment of packets on the table. “Microwave the shit out of the package of noodles and _bam_ , dinner.”

Nipping the edge of a mayo packet with his teeth, Mickey squeezed a generous amount on his noodle cookie, then took an equally generous bite. Eyeing the packets of ketchup, mustard and hot sauce, Ian decided to keep it simple and settled for extra salt and pepper.

After sprinkling a little seasoning, he took a bite, pretending to savor it like a proper foodie. “Needs peanut butter.”

“You and fucking peanut butter.”

“This is actually not bad though,” Ian laughed. “Guess that’s what things have come to. Overcooked cheap noodles are a delicacy.”

“Eaten worse.” He emptied the remaining mayo onto his noodles.

“Did you learn to do this during one of your stints?”

“Nah, Mexico.”

“Between paychecks?”

“Sometimes, but mostly, no real kitchen to cook in, so you figure out how to make a microwave do all kinds of tricks, and cheap noodles are easy to come by,” he explained, stuffing the last bite in his mouth and chewing for a minute. “Down there, you add jalapenos and corn and shit like that. Make a fucking meal.”

He chuckled suddenly, grabbing Ian’s attention which had drifted to his food.

“What’s so funny?”

“Thinking ‘bout how much I sucked at learning Spanish.”

Ian finished his snack, licking his lips because it actually wasn’t half bad. “You said something funny?”

Mickey laughed again, and Ian realized just how often he’d heard that sound since they’d arrived in Beckman. More than he’d heard it in the past.

“Sure,” he paused to lick his fingers and possibly decide if he wanted to share the memory with Ian. “ _Estoy caliente_.”

“Um, something about hot?” Ian guessed.

“That’s what I thought. Figured I said I was hot, which I was all the fucking time down there.”

“So what were you really saying?”

“That I was hot all right. Hot to fucking trot.”

“Horny?!” Ian rested his arms on the table so he could lean forward.

“Yup, took my landlady by surprise when I bitched to her that she should do something about it.”

Now they both started to laugh. Ian could just imagine Mickey’s eyebrows starting out expectant then quickly becoming frustrated to finally end up horrified.

“Did she help you out?” Ian teased.

“Sure, we banged it out. Once I helped her with her walker.”

Ian tried to keep a straight face but failed completely. His grin ended up taking over his face. “What else? Tell me another one.”

“What makes you think there’s another one?” But Mickey smiled too.

“Come on, this is hilarious.” He fluttered his eyelashes, formed praying hands and tilted his head. “Pretty please.”

“Okay, but no laughing,” he warned, clearly not expecting Ian to have much success. “ _Tengo veintitrés anos_ means I have 23 anuses. It does not mean I’m 23 years old.”

Ian banged his hand on the table so hard trying to catch a breath that the other inmate looked up from his newspaper. “God, I wish that were true though,” he gasped between bursts of laughter.

Mickey kicked him under the table. His “U” knuckle covering his laughing lips. “Fuck, me too.”

“Please, _please_ , tell me you were talking to your landlady!” Ian trapped Mickey’s foot briefly, but knew he had to release it. Don’t push your luck around here.

“Nah, just my entire crew.”

“Oh my god, that’s even better.”

“I was trying to convince them I was a know-it-all because of my advanced years. Told the dude I was arguing with that he had 50 anuses and still couldn’t get his head outta his ass.”

By the time they could breathe properly, Ian had tears streaming down his face and Mickey was smiling at him.

“Your turn, chuckles. Let’s laugh at you now.”

Ian sat back in his chair, thinking. He’d share anything that would keep Mickey laughing. “Oh, I actually fucked up but in English,” he laughed.

“Not surprised,” Mickey smirked. “I hope it wasn’t at the Fairy Tale talking about anuses.”

“ _Hardy har har_. No, it was like my first week as an EMT.” Even in the dim kitchen, he could see Mickey’s eyes clearly. That softening at the edges that happened when Mickey was content. “My first time using the radio to call dispatch. Nervous as hell, for some reason. My brain sort of shut down.”

Mickey waited patiently through the buildup, head tilted slightly in interest, and Ian realized that they had never really talked about his job. He didn’t know why, but suspected that, for him at least, he felt a layer of guilt that he’d found something he loved, really loved, while the person he really loved had never been able to do that. Ian had lost that job and was back to square one, and he’d taken Mickey back there with him.

Waving a hand in impatience, Mickey said, “Trying to kill me with suspense, Gallagher?”

Ian grinned, mind back where it belonged. “Well, after announcing that the patient was a male boy, I explained that no _erections_ were needed...instead of _directions_.”

Mickey’s soft look intensified, and Ian felt an overwhelming urge to share all of his funny medical stories, all the stories he would have shared had he been coming home to Mickey each night.

“We got some pretty bizarre calls too. Once we got called to a Code 5 only to discover that the dead body was actually a zombie Halloween decoration,” he smiled, for the first time enjoying those memories without beating himself up for how he’d ended his short lived career.

“Wish I’d been around then.”

Ian’s mood tried to plummet, but Mickey still seemed happy and he wasn’t going to be the one to kill the good time they were having. “You ever miss Mexico?”

Laying his forearm along the table between him, Mickey pointed to his newest tattoo. “South Side’s my home, man. I was never gonna be able to stay away.”

While that helped to lessen some of Ian’s guilt, he still wasn’t sure how he’d ever make it up to Mickey and that kept him up at night sometimes. The only thing he’d been able to come up with was to take his meds and work on being honest and open.

“I was never able to escape either,” Ian said. “Even when it broke my heart to stay.”

Mickey scooped up the plastic containers, stacking them slowly. “Yeah, it’s in our fucking blood.”


	2. Season 10, Episode 1

**Cell A20**

The lights dimmed slightly in cell A20 as the two COs, Raymond and Daniels, completed their count for the night. Mickey watched them move out of sight and silence descended after the bustle of the day.

“Hey, Mick?”

Well, maybe not complete silence.

“Mm.” Mickey paused his doodling to glance at the bunk above him, painfully familiar with Ian’s tone of voice. He was having deep fucking thoughts based on whatever shit he was currently reading and felt compelled to take Mickey with him on his mental journey.

“You ever read _The Bible_?”

Mickey went back to work on his 3D doodle, shading in the geometric shape on the page with a burnt sienna pencil because Gallagher used up all his #4 black on a bunch of fancy crosses that he’d plastered to the walls. “Being in prison isn’t enough for your Gay Jesus ass?” he countered. “Gotta drag us down to hell too.”

“There’s some good stuff in here,” Ian continued undaunted, his voice serious as it traveled down to Mickey. “Listen to this...”

“Nope, gimme that book.” He tapped the side of Ian’s bunk. “Pass it over, man.”

“But I want--”

His fingers tapped harder on Ian’s bunk. “This is a fucking intervention. You got a problem, Gallagher.”

“By reading?” He sounded peeved but the book appeared near Mickey’s hand, and he wasted no time snatching it away from the redhead.

“No, by thinking.”

“But, Mick--”

“No buts,” he interrupted, flipping open the small paperback book, locating a passage short enough to make his point. He cleared his throat dramatically. “Would that those who are upsetting you might also castrate themselves,” he read. “ _Shit_ , maybe this book ain’t so bad. Everyone who pisses me off has to cut their own dick off?”

Ian’s face appeared over the side of the bed. “I don’t think it means--”

“Not gonna be many dicks left in the world then.”

Ian’s giggle landed on his ears, warming him from the inside out, so he flipped to another page scanning for short verses.

“If a man has sex with an animal, he must be put to death, and the animal must be killed. What the fuck, Gallagher? Need a book to tell you not to bang your pet?” He tossed the book and his artwork next to Ian’s never-ending pile of faggity ass books. “That’s enough of that. We gotta get you some cool shit to read.”

“Yeah, like what?” Ian’s hair fell loose from its normal perfection as he hung over the side of his bunk awaiting Mickey’s suggestion. Unable to stop himself, Mickey ran a chunk of the red locks between his fingers, savoring the cool silkiness against his skin. “Fashion magazines?” Ian snickered happily.

“Fuck you,” Mickey said without much feeling, but he tugged a little harder on Ian’s hair to make some sort of point. “You don’t know shit about what I read.”

“You always seemed pretty fucking excited when we got the new editions at Kash and Grab.” Ian nudged Mickey’s fingers to keep them moving through his hair, and his soft green eyes closed slightly when Mickey found his scalp, massaging gently.

“Those were fitness magazines, man.”

“Fashion,” Ian countered, eyes still dazed. “As I recall, you were especially fond of _Vogue_.”

“You don’t _re-call_ shit, Gallagher.” Mickey watched Ian’s upside down smile widen. “ _Vogue_ , my ass. Speaking of, you were too busy checking out my ass back then to know what the fuck I was reading.”

Ian’s eyes opened and locked on Mickey’s. “I was aware of every single thing you did.”

Releasing a puff of air through his nose, Mickey tightened his fingers. “Get _your_ ass down here.”

Ian’s smile turned cocky as Mickey’s fingers tugged. “Gotta let go of my hair then, Mick.”

“I don’t think so.”

Ian practically toppled out of his bunk, landing heavily on the bottom one. With a little shuffling, his body covered Mickey’s, exactly how he wanted it to, and Mickey wound all his fingers through the now wayward hair as Ian happily nuzzled his hand. He loved this fucker so damn much it was ridiculous.

“You still into the Gay Jesus thing?” he asked, wondering about the crosses and the reading. They had touched on the events that led to Ian’s incarceration, but they’d let it drop when Ian got his shit together with his meds and overall habits. “Am I gonna have to wear one of your t-shirts when we’re out?”

“No,” Ian touched his lips to Mickey’s. “But maybe...I don’t know...it all happened for a reason.”

“Cause you went off your meds?”

That little frustrated frown Mickey knew well pinched up Ian’s face. “No. Well, yes,” he inhaled deeply before continuing, “I went off my meds after they stopped working properly, but I’m talking about the fact that the movement went viral...maybe that was…”

“Supposed to happen?”

“Whatever, never mind.” Ian’s long fingers made their way under Mickey’s tank top, skimming along his ribs.

“So that little twink who showed up in Juárez looking for E and wearing a shirt with your face plastered on it was sent by God?” he asked. “You basing that on your extensive knowledge of the holy fucking scripture?”

“Well, it’s pretty fucking coincidental, Mickey.” There didn’t appear to be any anger in Ian’s tone, so maybe he was starting to get over his sensitivity about the topic, and about fucking time too. That shit Mickey’d seen on YouTube back in Mexico had taken ten goddamn years off his life, and hearing a group of idiots chanting his ex-boyfriend’s name as though he was their cult leader had, ultimately, turned Mickey into a fucking snitch. All that intel he’d been gathering on the cartel that had taken the city of Juárez hostage eventually came in handy.

Even though he wasn’t taking any chances that Ian’s continued interest in God shit would turn into a new pilgrimage, he decided to let it go for now.

“Praise the lord then.”

Ian yanked his tank top over his head, bicep flexing nicely with the effort. “I wonder if he’d hear my prayers for some lube.”

“I don’t know, you been griping about the lack of fucking fruit around here for months and no banana tree has shown up. Doubt he’s interested in delivering lube to a couple of homos.”

Ian frowned down at him. “There’s some good stuff in that book.”

“Yeah, well this ain’t Sunday school, so take your damn jumpsuit off.”

Ian did as he was told, before starting in on Mickey’s clothing, lingering a little too long on the process of pulling the prison issue boxers over his hips so he could watch Mickey’s semi-erection slowly appear. The pad of his thumb traced the shape and he popped back up to press his mouth against Mickey’s. It made the removal of his underwear more difficult, but Ian’s mouth never left his.

Not when his hand moved between Mickey’s legs to push his thigh aside and make room for Ian’s hips. Not when he used the tiny bit of pre-come to moisten his entry into Mickey’s body. Not when Mickey winced but locked a foot around Ian’s thigh holding him in place. Despite the lack of lube, this is how Mickey liked it. Lost in Ian.

He couldn’t help think about how similar the feeling was to those early days of Ian getting on him. They did what they had to do in order to be together back then, and Mickey would have done just about anything to be with Ian. Everything about Ian had fascinated him. Most especially how he had looked at Mickey with the perfect combination of eagerness and tentativeness, so sure of himself yet always clearly awestruck that Mickey gave him the time of day. A look that Mickey was beginning to get used to again.

He gave in to the sensations filling his body, banishing thoughts of being with Ian from his mind since he’d be free of this place long before Mickey and he knew what that meant.

**Visiting Hall**

The first thing to catch Ian’s eye as he exited through the security doors into the visits hall was Liam’s smile followed immediately by his giant Afro. The boy was returning to his seat with two cans of Coke, which had become their visitation ritual. Ian grinned as he made his way through the maze of tables, chairs and yellow jumpsuits, wondering if outdoor visits were currently prohibited due to some sort of safety concern.

“Liam!” Ian beamed, wrapping one arm around the boy and using his free hand to play with the curls sticking out in all directions. “Nice ‘fro. Has it been that long since I saw you, kid?”

Thin arms tightened around his waist and Ian hesitated to separate them, but anything longer than three seconds would be reprimanded even with a child.

“Wig I found in Vee’s closet,” he explained, striking a pose for Ian. “I’m discovering my Black heritage.”

“Which includes wigs?” Holding in his laugh, Ian nodded seriously. “Looking good. How’s your latest business venture going?” he asked, settling into the chair across the table from his siblings.

“If there is no struggle, there is no progress,” Liam replied, handing Ian one of the pop cans.

“Um, that’s...true?” Ian conceded, wondering where this was all coming from. “You okay?”

“Asked Debbie to buy me a new calculator. She refused.”

“Ah, the struggle is real,” Ian teased, while bumping fists with Carl and getting that Carl style chin lift. “Does Lip know you’re relying on a calculator? Hid them from me when we were in school. ‘ _Use the calculator god gave you_ ,’ he’d say like the douchebag he is.” Ian laughed despite the melancholy missing his siblings brought on, then turned his full attention to his little sister. “Speaking of Lip, how’s Tami?”

Debbie glanced toward the security kiosk at the armed guards stationed behind metal mesh before making eye contact with Ian. She smiled distractedly and reached across the table to pat his hand. “Still pregnant.”

“Ah,” Ian nodded, popping the tab on his soda then tapping the can against Liam’s. “She’s bitchy is she?”

Liam leaned in, hair bouncing every time he moved. “You’re an EMT. How do you know if someone has a head injury?”

Debbie waved off the question. “Between the fucking and the cuddling, Lip is freaking out.”

“That’s not normal?” He had never met Tami but wouldn’t be surprised to hear that Lip was having relationship troubles. He’d probably have to trace the Gallagher family tree all the way back to Adam in order to find a family member who hadn’t fucked things up, especially if it had the potential to be successful.

Debbie and Carl exchanged a look, and Ian was made painfully aware every time his siblings visited how life continued without him and how out of the loop he’d become. All he could do was try to keep up and not get sucked into the pity party he wanted to have for himself at the thought of missing such an important moment in his brother’s life.

“Have they settled on any names yet?” The baby would probably be crawling by the time Ian had a chance to meet it. His heart thudded a little at not being able to hold the newborn.

“Don’t think so.” She didn’t appear as excited as Ian for the new addition to the family. “Lip is planning to use the Frank and Monica method of parenting.”

“What the fuck does that mean?” Ian felt the first stirrings of honest to god worry that his family might fall apart while he was gone.

“Figures babies don’t need anything cause we managed without.”

Lip had seemed excited back in the day to be a father to Karen’s baby, even heartbroken when it turned out not to be his, so what was going on with him? Thoughts of his brother falling off the wagon wormed their way into his brain along with the ever-present reminder that he couldn’t do anything about it from prison.

Deciding to focus on the siblings who had traveled all this way to visit, he returned his attention to Debbie. Before he could ask about Franny, she spoke. “Fi left us some money, so if you want, I can order you an inmate package.”

“She did?” It didn’t really surprise him since she’d been taking care of them practically since they were born, and when she’d visited him earlier in the summer, she’d been half convinced that leaving was a shitty thing to do. Since they’d only spoken once on the phone, shortly after her arrival in Southern California, he had no idea if she’d managed to leave behind a lifetime of caring for her siblings. A part of him believed she wouldn’t make it a year before showing up on the Gallagher doorstep.

“The Bank of Debbie is hoarding it though,” Carl spat, giving his sister the evil eye.

“Investing! ‘Sides you’re over 12, time to look after yourself!”

Before they ended up kicked out of the visits hall, Ian asked, “How the hell much did she leave?”

“Not the point,” Debbie said at the same time as Carl’s “fifty grand.”

“Woah. Maybe Liam should do the investing.” Ian winked at the kid.

“I’d be willing to look at our asset allocation,” Liam said, rubbing his finger tips together near Debbie’s face. “Takes money to make money.”

“Maybe it’s Frank you take after,” Ian concluded.

“He’s been spending way too much time with Frank,” Debbie said. “Talk some sense into him, would ya?”

As the leader of the anti-Frank movement, Ian was happy to dis the asshole. “Whatever, you do, kid, do not let the leach anywhere near your money. Any money.”

“I got it covered.” Then he mumbled something about it being easier to build strong children than to repair broken men, and Ian believed the kid was going to be just fine. Maybe he’d end up the only healthy branch on the family tree.

“Anyway,” Debbie said, clearly done with this parental conversation. “What do you need?”

“With that kind of dough, you could probably get me some strawberries?” he laughed.

Debbie ignored that as she grabbed an order form and pen from the shelves containing games and coloring books. Whatever was going on with the money had nothing to do with him at the moment, since the state deemed him unfit for society, even South Side society. She clicked the end of her pen and waited, all business.

“Um, well, Mickey needs some new art paper, something better quality than the shit he’s got now. And his birthday is coming up. Oh, I could get a bunch of stuff for him.”

“Better get him a whole bunch of shit since he got himself locked up,” Carl said. When Ian had called his family the day after his incarceration to inform them that he wasn’t going to be alone for the next couple years, it had been Carl’s response that hit him the hardest. The kid had gotten choked up and Ian’d had to fight his own tears.

“Yeah,” he agreed. “Do they have any birthday cards?”

Debbie scanned the boxes on the form. “They got husband ones.”

Ian felt something tighten in his chest, but before he could formulate any response, she added, “Or just generic birthday. You can add your own boyfriend crap.”

She glanced up at him with her usual edge of impatience and Ian nodded.

“So, what else?”

An image popped into his head of Mickey in their tiny cell reclining on his bunk as Ian left for his visit today. Neither of them got many visits, but his outnumbered Mickey’s by far.

_You never fucking visited me._

Ian looked around the visiting area, wondering how things would have been different if Mickey had ended up in minimum security and their visits could have been like this, without the fucking glass between them. A quick kiss hello and good-bye, holding hands across the table. Why had his traitorous brain thought it was too much?

“Earth to Ian.” Debbie snapped her fingers near his face.

“Uh, sorry. How ‘bout some hair gel and good shampoo if they got any.” He released the breath he’d been holding. “Maybe a weight lifting magazine. Couple Snickers bars. Some floss.” That last one lifted his spirits a bit. “Oh, do they have Big Red gum?”

When Deb nodded, he laughed in delight. “Get...six packages.”

Watching her fill in the form, Ian imagined Mickey’s face when he opened his present to find the gum. His eyes would narrow and Ian would smirk knowingly.

“He must really like it,” Liam said.

“It’s an inside joke.”

“You want anything?” Deb asked. “Other than strawberries?”

“Fucking lube.” He laughed at the face she made, but she scanned the order form.

“No can do.”

“Does the state really think men won’t have sex without it? You’d think they’d’a figured out that nothing stops men from having sex.”

“Too much sex ain’t good either.”

Ian’s attention shifted at Carl’s soft words. His arms crossed, legs spread wide as he mirrored the movements of the inmate at the table next to theirs. Ian smiled, both at his brother’s antics and because he’d been admiring that very pose since he was 15 years old.

“What’s going on with you, Carl?” he asked.

Their eyes met. “You ever get a rash from too many condoms?”

Ian pushed back in his chair with a laugh. “God, I wish Mick could be here for this conversation.”

“Get him that husband card then,” Debbie interjected.

He frowned in confusion as that tightening in his chest started up again.

“Guidebook says we’re allowed to visit you guys at the same time if you’re both family.”

Instead of replying, Ian swallowed half the can of Coke and listened to Carl talk about his girlfriend.

**Showers**

Pushing open the door to the shower room, Mickey listened for water running or men talking, but it was quiet. He tossed a “clear” over his shoulder at Ian, who nodded at the guard monitoring the hallway.

Mickey dumped the fishnet bag of clean clothes and towels on the wooden bench, and Ian arranged their shampoo and soap. They both finished their work shifts early twice a week and found the showers empty most days at this time, so they’d gotten in a routine of taking a longer, more thorough shower on those days and saving Mickey from having to stab every fucker who looked at Ian.

Twisting both his and Ian’s taps to near scalding, he let out a content sigh. Nothing like a hot shower without being surrounded by 30 sets of balls, even if half of them were covered in prison issue boxers.

“Who was that dude at breakfast?” Ian asked, distracting Mickey from the fact that his own balls were free to enjoy the warm water. “The cute guy staring at you over his oatmeal.”

“Nobody.”

“Bullshit.”

He watched Ian squirt shampoo into his palm in frustration, clearly expecting Mickey’s dismissal and no doubt wondering how to pry what he wanted out of him. But this wasn’t something he intended to share with the redhead.

“Nobody,” he repeated, turning his back to Ian so he could wash his face and physically end their conversation.

“Come on, Mick. I’m not fucking blind.” A moment of silence followed before he picked up his train of thought. “At first, I thought maybe you knew him from past stints, maybe he was an old lover or something.”

Mickey ran his hands down his face before turning around to respond. “Fuck off with that lover bullshit. Next you gonna have me batting my goddamn eyelashes at some dude?”

“You bat your eyelashes at me all the time.”

Mickey’s eyes popped open at that. “Watch it, Gallagher.”

“Whatever. Anyway, if he was a _lover_ ,” he side-eyed Mickey while suds streamed down his torso. “It ended okay between you.”

Stepping out of the spray, Mickey grabbed the bar of Irish Spring soap from their belongings while understanding that not only was Ian not going to drop the damn subject, he was also determined to turn this conversation into a gay romance novel.

“Then I saw him on the track during my morning run. I noticed the tattoo on his arm. Looks a lot like the one on your arm, Mick. The one _you_ designed.”

Giving his left pit a good lathering, Mickey glared at Ian, but the guy had always known when Mickey was bluffing.

“Is he Calderón cartel?”

“Fuck, Ian!” he snapped, nearly dropping the soap in frustration. “You wanna get us fucking killed?”

“What? We’re alone.”

“We’re never alone in here. _Never_.”

“Is he here to--” He clearly wasn’t able to either drop the subject or spit out his question. “Is he gonna be a problem?”

“No, well, but not that kind of problem. He’s as interested in running into any of Guzman’s soldiers as I am, so you can relax, okay?”

“You know him from when you were in Juárez? Did he roll too?”

“Yeah, more or less,” he explained, working the soap around his chest and abs. “We worked together down there and apparently he’s doing his time here too, but we have an understanding. Don’t fuck up that understanding by going 51-50 on his ass, Ian.”

“You’re not the only one who gets to be protective.” Ian had stopped doing anything but stand under the water. “What if someone notices your tattoos besides me? Makes a connection or something? Maybe we need to--”

“Stop,” Mickey said quietly. “We’re okay. I promise to let you know if we’re not.”

“But _why_ hasn’t anyone come after you? Surely they know it was you!”

Releasing a frustrated sigh, Mickey shushed him and let the warm water relax his now tense shoulders. “The guys who’d want my head are in supermax until the trial, you know that. Hopefully, the only transfer they ever get is to a coffin.” Ian nodded then looked away, his eyes on the exit for so long Mickey had to ask.

“What, Gallagher?”

That got Ian’s attention. “Why do you have the same tattoo as that...guy?”

Mickey chuckled, ignoring the question. “Jesus, Gallagher, you jealous or something?”

“Stop ignoring my questions.” When Mickey continued to ignore his questions, Ian reached a finger across the space between them and lightly touched the ink Mickey’s left pec. “Fine. We ever gonna _talk_ about that tattoo?”

“What about it? You know I downed nearly a 2-6 of pruno and stuck myself with a needle.” This time Mickey’s eyes strayed, watching water slithering down Ian’s chest and thighs mingling with the fine red hairs.

“Mick.”

“What, man?” he pleaded, tossing the bar of Irish Spring soap at Ian hoping to distract him.

“I need to know. _Please_.”

“Jesus, you pushy fucker, we’re in the goddamn shower, and 30 motherfuckers are about to invade what little privacy we ever get. You wanna spend all our time talking about shit?”

“Yes.”

“Gimme the fucking soap back since you don’t feel the need to fucking use it.” He tried to take it from Ian’s hand, but the green bar slipped from both their fingers and slithered through the half inch of water covering the shower floor before stopping at the toe of Mickey’s shower shoe. “Christ, Gallagher.”

Retrieving it, Ian turned toward the showerhead anchored to the wall. He scrubbed the soap with his fingers, while Mickey studied the ridiculous tattoo on Ian’s shoulder. Mickey swore his eyes had nearly popped out of his head when he first saw it. His laughter didn't last long after he found out whose tits they represented as well as what led to that particular decision, including how fucked up Ian had been for months after her death because no one seemed to understand why he was upset.

 _Not even your fucking boyfriend?_ Mickey had asked, goaded really. Ian just shook his head, and Mickey figured the pair of them had spent the weeks after their separation at the border equally messed up.

“Fuck, okay,” Mickey sighed, releasing all the air in his lungs. Apparently, _real_ boyfriends shared shit with each other. “That fuckhead Damon had a constant batch of prison hooch on the go. He worked chow, so he had access to fruit and shit that he’d leave rotting under his bunk for days.”

Ian remained motionless, Irish Spring clutched in his hand, so Mickey pried it free to give himself something to do while he spoke. “I think this particular batch was made with a bunch of fucking Tootsie Rolls. Can’t fucking stand the thought of them. Anyway, I traded a pack of Lucky Strikes for way too fucking much of what tasted like drain cleaner.”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“You never mentioned drinking in prison before, so why then?”

They stared at each other. Ian’s face a combination of determination and shame, like he was challenging Mickey to stab him in the heart with the truth. But Mickey didn’t know how to put all his hurt and fear into words, or if he did, he wasn’t up to the challenge of prying it all from wherever he’d buried it, so he just shrugged.

He returned the soap to Ian’s hand, nudging him to actually use it this time. “With a bunch of that shit poisoning my system, I tracked down some Van fucking Gogh wannabe for some ink. Asshole accepted the rest of my Tootsie Roll cocktail as payment, which in hindsight was a shit idea cause he got too pissed to actually give me the fucking tattoo.”

Working his way down his body, he ran his soapy hand over his dick, giving Ian a suggestive look. Thoughts of sex usually distracted Gallagher from his doggedness. Not today apparently because he didn’t even look at the hand Mickey shoved between his legs.

“So, I ended up pretty fucking shitfaced and used the asshole’s dirty needle to stab myself. Repeatedly. And all I got for it was an infected fucking typo on my chest.”

He stood motionless under the spray now, cleanliness forgotten, only a few feet of moldy tile between him and the only person on the planet who could make him do such stupid shit.

“Why?” Ian repeated, eyes filled with enough anguish to transport Mickey back to that moment when he’d finally been able to show Ian the tattoo.

“Cause I fucking missed you.” _And cause you’re under my fucking skin, asshole._ “It was a drunken attempt to either purge you from my body or seal my fucking fate. Guess we know which one it was, don’t we?”

Ian lifted a hand, clearly intent on grabbing Mickey’s head and coming in for a kiss, but Mickey lifted a hand of his own, pushing it into Ian’s warm, wet chest. “Nah, this ain’t the place. Get fucking curb stomped if we’re caught in a public space. Bad enough we’re fucking naked.”

“Sorry,” Ian said stepping away and twisting the tap to the off position. “I’m sorry.”

“Just get dressed, don’t need to rub their noses in our gay asses.”

Ian tried to smile as he passed Mickey a towel barely bigger than a washcloth, but it didn’t reach his eyes. And once again, they were at sea, unsure what to do with their past when it refused to stay there.

**TV Room**

Frowning over the phone conversation he’d just had with his cousin, Sandy, and working a few angles based on her suggestions, Mickey entered the TV room, noting yet another crime drama on the ancient set and nearly turned around because he was sick to death of the same shit day after day. Same entertainment options, same food, same fucking faces.

Speaking of same fucking faces, that dickhead Rebel was sitting front and center, his bald Aryan head blocking half the shitty TV set. The punk was as big as house and dumb a box of screws, but he’d somehow taken over the TV room, and one day, Mickey was going to kick his ass back to the gutter where he belonged.

But that day wasn’t today because he spotted Gallagher in the back corner. Alone. He’d expected the guy to be surrounded by all his fucking girlfriends.

At the start of their stretch, he’d kept a laser eye on Ian watching for bullshit that was likely to turn into a situation, reminding him to play it cool and stay detached. That shit had lasted about a fucking week before Ian started sniffing around the other prisoners looking for people to fucking gab with.

Despite the fact that Ian would be his first choice in a fight, Mickey had initially spread his goddamn feathers in the face of any guy who approached Ian, down to the fucking cook asking if Ian wanted gravy or not. He had made damn sure that they knew Ian wasn’t just his cellie or even just his warm mouth. They knew he belonged to Mickey. After all, that was the reason Mickey had gotten himself locked up. No sense pussyfooting around.

While power was definitely a commodity behind bars, even juvenile bars, they weren’t in maximum security, so the stakes were lower and people tended to mind their own business for the most part. Inmates weren’t sticking around all that long or they were longer term inmates moved to minimum security because of good behavior and not interested in being sent back. Plus prisoners who kept to themselves too much were considered a problem, so Mickey had loosened his apron strings a little and let the redhead find a few buddies that Mickey could at least tolerate.

Personally though, he wasn’t here to make friends or influence people; he was here to do his time and find a way to come out the other end better off than when he’d entered. A whole world of capitalism existed on the inside and he was going to take advantage of it.

With that goal in mind, he was trying to move some cash he’d squirreled away before turning himself in, and the only person he even remotely trusted--aside from the redhead he shared a cell with--was his cousin. His siblings were either under Terry’s thumb or in the wind. Neither he nor Ian had spoken to Mandy in way too fucking long. Another casualty of his father’s destructive legacy.

And so it was that he found himself renewing his relationship with Sandy, who it turns out wasn’t half fucking bad. He could certainly do a hell of a lot worse.

When he dropped into the hard chair next to Gallagher, the guy tore his eyes away from their thousandth viewing of _Law & Order_ since they’d arrived. Mickey felt certain he could recite the dialogue of each episode as well as the comments from the idiots watching, who thought their experience with the criminal justice system made them lawyers.

“Hey,” Ian whispered, even though they were tucked away in a back corner. “How’s Sandy?”

As usual, Mickey detected the mild scorn in Ian’s voice when discussing his cousin. Apparently, he was as incapable of letting go of the past childishness between as she was. “She sends her love.”

Ian’s chin lifted a notch and so did Mickey’s spirits. It amazed him when anything good in his life remained constant, and Ian holding onto his teenage pettiness made that list.

“She’s a good kid,” he explained, adding a decisive nod. “Living at Terry’s now.”

“What?” Ian barked, earning a few hissed complaints from the crowd.

“Aunt Randi’s in the clink down state, so she’s back in Chicago.”

“Surely, there’s somewhere else she could stay.”

Mickey could hear the unspoken and ever present “psychotic prick” in Ian’s voice whenever his father came up in conversation. “Told her to buy a lock for her room.”

Ian returned his attention to the TV, but obviously something wasn’t sitting right with him. “And keep a gun under her pillow.”

“Duh, Ian. No self-respecting Milkovich would sleep any other way. ‘Sides Terry’s on an extended run. She hasn’t seen him in a couple weeks.”

Ian’s gaze was back on Mickey, and it lingered a little too long on his lips, almost making Mickey squirm in response. Then he turned to the TV. “What did you two talk about?”

“She’s taking care of shit for me.”

“What shit’s that?” He was gonna get whiplash if he kept swiveling to look at Mickey every two seconds.

“Moving some money for me.”

“You have money?” He had Ian’s complete attention for the first time since he’d sat down. “That you need _moved_?”

“You think you’re the only fucker who can get a goddamn savings account, Gallagher?” Ian’s eyes were all over his face, looking for evidence of bullshit, but Mickey kept his expression passive.

“She’s moving money from your savings account? Your _bank_ savings account?” Ian didn’t sound like he was buying that story.

“I didn’t just blow your fucking money,” Mickey said, looking away.

Ian huffed. “Never thought you did. But it was barely enough to survive, let alone _save_.”

“Maybe.”

“You’re making this sound shady, Mick.” Ian touched his thigh quickly. “Is this another prison hustle or you doing some shit on the outside?”

Dropping his voice a bit, Mickey summed it up for the redhead. “Now that Newton is being released, the cell block is in need of a new banker.”

“You’re starting a bank?” Ian’s eyes widened. “Like lending people money?”

“Yeah, man, gonna be a CEO again,” he chuckled. “Pen’s clamping down on send-in/send-out and dudes are fed up with their books losing 30% value as soon as they hit the yard. But I gotta move quick before some other motherfucker beats me to it.”

Ian continued to study him. “Just don’t get in any trouble, okay? You sure you can trust Sandy with this?”

“She’s loyal, man. She was my contact while I was in Mexico.”

This time Ian’s chin dropped and so did his eyes. Mickey released a puff of air through his nose, wanting to tell Ian that he made the short list of people Mickey trusted, along with Sandy. Even though he really did believe it, the words wouldn’t come, so he looked away and his eyes met a set of dark Latino eyes.

“Yo, Rabbit,” the guy shouted at him. “We’re setting up a game of Mexican Train. You in?”

He glanced at Ian, who pointed at the TV to confirm he’d stick around to watch the _Law & Order_ marathon.

“Gimme five,” he shouted then looked back at Ian. “Why you alone? Where’s Thelma and Louise?”

Ian smiled a little. “Cobb and Dallas,” he stressed their names just to mess with Mickey, “went to an NA meeting.” He turned more fully toward Mickey. “Have you made a friend, Mickey?”

“The fuck would I wanna do that?” He scowled with vigor. “Rather go to a fucking NA meeting.”

“Seriously,” Ian said seriously, and Mickey put all his energy into not rolling his eyes out of his head. “We need friends. It’s good to have someone to talk to about shit. People who understand, you know?”

“I got you for that. Can’t go a fucking hour without talking about shit.” No fucking way he’d start wearing prison friendship bracelets, for crissake.

“But, what if--” Ian paused, eyes slinking away and Mickey knew he didn’t want to know the end of that bullshit sentence, but he never could protect himself where this asshole was concerned.

“What if what, Ian?” He didn’t ask it like a question though.

Ian’s chin got in the game again. “What if you need to talk about me? About our relationship? You got no one, Mick.”

“Fuck you, I got no one.”

“Who you gonna talk to then?”

“I could talk to Sandy.”

“Cause she’s so loyal?”

“Sure, why not?”

“Well, she’s a girl for one. Has she ever done time?” When Mickey started to nod, he added, “While in a relationship?”

Mickey just shrugged. How the fuck would he know about that? “Doesn’t mean I wanna spend my time talking to a bunch of mouthbreathers about my fucking love life. Rather drink a bottle of the poison the prison calls laundry detergent.” Realization finally dawned on Mickey and he glared at Ian’s profile. Hissing, he leaned in close. “You talking about me to those two dipshits?”

Ian crossed his arms in defiance. “I talk about me.”

Mickey waited him out.

“And you are a big part of me.”

Mickey glanced around the room, glad it seemed to be a slow night for crime dramas because he could feel his emotions start to leak and he had no interest in reining them in. “What the fuck do you tell them?”

“Nothing!” Apparently, Ian was a chatty fucking Cathy with Dumb and Dumber but a fucking clam with him. The fight went out of Mickey as quickly as it arrived, and he was left tired of this conversation.

“Keep it that way, Gallagher.” He glanced at Ian’s pouty profile again and softened. Like fucking usual. “Let’s bang. I’m horny.”

Ian’s head whipped around in disbelief, eyes wide as they stared at him. Mickey gave him the _you got a fucking problem with that head_ tilt, and Ian stood up, bending slightly to whisper _“estoy caliente”_ into Mickey’s ear then tossing a flirty look over his shoulder as he walked out of the room.

Watching him, Mickey stared at those tattooed tits poking out from under his tank top, and wondered how much more of this he would be able to take before he needed to talk to some asshole about their goddamn relationship, but he got up to follow like a hound on the scent.

“Yo, Martinez,” he shouted. “I gotta take care of something first.”

“Sure, Rabbit, but I think you mean some _one_.”

Mickey shared his favorite finger with the whole room on his way out.

**Cell A20**

“Jesus Christ, Mickey, you got mayo on my book.”

Ian scowled at his fingers, which were slick with the condiment, then turned his attention to his cellmate, who was fluffing his hair at the sink as an apparent means of entertainment during their latest lockdown. They’d heard through the vent grapevine that some new fish got caught with contraband, and now the whole tier was going through a heat wave. The last thing he and Mickey needed was more time spent locked in their cell.

He considered wiping his fingers on the sheets covering the bottom bunk, but he wasn’t that pissed off. Yet. “Why do you have to pile all these damn packets with _my_ stuff? Especially with my books.”

“You and your books, this place feels like a fucking library.” To emphasize the point, Mickey waved his hands around the tiny cell. Ian followed the trajectory but smirked when the only evidence of his hoarding was a tiny pile of library books next to Mickey’s bunk.

“You got more mayo packets than I got books, Mick.”

Tipping his chin toward the mirror, Mickey began examining his pours for god knows what. “And you are way too concerned with my mayo. Get a fucking life.”

Rolling his eyes heavenward, Ian dropped the grimy novel onto his bunk, grabbed the open mayo packet and squeezed his body into the space beside Mickey, intending to wash his hands. When more mayo leaked from the packet onto his fingers, he dropped it in the tiny sink in annoyance.

“See!” Ian spat holding out his hand for Mickey to ignore. “Can you find something else to put on your Ramen cookies?”

“Liking what I like…” he paused when Ian shoved a hip into his so he could access the sink without having to deal with Mickey’s endless facial examinations. On the first try, Ian’s fingers slipped off the hot water knob without making any progress. He tried a second time but still couldn’t get enough purchase to turn the knob. “Fucking slippery,” he muttered in frustration.

His eyes met Mickey’s in the tiny, distorted mirror. One second later, his hand was down Mickey’s pants, fingers circling the now semi-hard flesh then sliding up and down quickly, silkily.

“Oh god,” Ian moaned, pressing Mickey into the corner of the cell. “I miss lube more than my freedom.”

Mickey just grunted, eyes pressed shut and left hand pulling Ian’s head toward his until he could get his tongue into Ian’s mouth. His right hand got busy feeling around the sink ledge for the forgotten condiment packet, which hit the floor as soon as Mickey squeezed some on his own hand. When he found Ian’s dick, his toes curled in his prison issue slippers at the feel of Mickey’s firm grip jacking him off with ease.

“I miss lube,” Ian repeated, lips travelling down the side of Mickey’s throat and sucking on the straining tendon. He had a consuming urge to leave a mark, but didn’t want to get another lecture on prison etiquette. Instead he increased the speed of his hand and Mickey matched it.

Two minutes later, with Mickey panting into his ear, he came but didn’t slow his movements until he felt Mickey tense too. They bent their heads to look at the state of their prison jumpsuits.

“That’s fucking disgusting, Gallagher.”

Ian felt far too relaxed to be disturbed by the sight and just let out a deep sigh, but as he released his hold on Mickey, instinct and habit kicked in and his fingers slid slickly between Mickey’s legs. Their eyes met and Mickey’s narrowed.

“Fuck you.” But his hips shifted forward, inviting Ian’s finger to locate what it was searching for. When he did, Mickey didn’t push him away, but he did glare at Ian.

“Terrible idea,” Ian concluded, pressing deeper.

“Yeah,” Mickey agreed, closing his eyes.

“We should stop.”

“Fuck, Ian.”

He sounded so torn that Ian slowly removed his hand, careful not to make more of a mess on Mickey’s clothes than was already there. They met at the sink, eventually getting the water to flow. As Ian passed him the bar of soap, their eyes met in the mirror again then skittered away.

**Laundry**

Sorting through the pile of fishnet bags filled with dirty prisoner laundry, Mickey checked the labels for the names of guys who’d paid him to give their stuff extra attention. He tossed a few bundles into the monster sized washing machine and slammed the door closed before adding a higher grade soap to the prison approved dime sized dollop of industrial detergent then started the cycle, wrinkling his nose at the smell and wishing they had a better ventilation system.

Budget cuts were as common in prison as hand jobs were back in the Rub ‘n Tug days, and it made Mickey’s life hellish. But also profitable. The fucking poison they pawned off as laundry detergent was disgusting and didn’t clean for shit, which left him wide open to accept payment from inmates who wanted their shit washed properly, but also left him with a low-level headache and a high level grouch by the end of each shift.

A couple of dryers buzzed, and he pushed a wheeled cart toward them, banging into the machine with a loud metallic clang. He was on autopilot from what must be lack of sleep, not giving a rat’s ass if any of the zombies standing around folding a thousand faded towels dared to fuck with his tired ass. They knew his reputation and were well aware that his retaliation would be swift and deadly.

So he let the warmth from the dryer surround him like a cozy blanket and his eyes drooped. Fucking Gallagher keeping him up every night meant he’d gone months without a proper night’s sleep, and it must have finally caught up with him. Well, maybe it wasn’t all Ian’s fault, but _he_ didn’t have to spend his days thinking about crawling into the pile of warm sheets now spread out on the folding station. The guy got to take blood pressure and write shit in charts.

Mickey watched his hand run over the sheets, making several circles as the warmth called to him like a siren. Old Man Stewie’s ancient ass was working the sorting station and the two newbies were busy folding towels at a different table. Since the guards only intermittently popped in, Mickey gave in to the need to close his eyes for just a minute. The warm pile of sheets seemed like the perfect place to lay his head.

“Milkovich! Wake up!”

Mickey shot up in a panic, rubbing at his eyes like a five-year-old. “What?” he mumbled, trying to figure out how much time had passed. His gaze slid between Stewie and CO Washington, taking in their concerned looks as the room continued to spin without any help from him.

“How many fingers am I holding up?” Stewie asked, shoving his wrinkly index and middle finger into Mickey’s face for assessment. His initial reaction was to hold up one of his own fingers, but he hesitated. Did they think something was wrong with him?

“Are you able to walk?” Washington asked. Rather than wait for a response though, he brought his two-way radio up to his mouth, clicking the button on the side before speaking into it. “Yeah, bloodshot eyes...very pale...should I take him to the infirmary?”

A crackle erupted from the radio followed by a male voice, pulling Mickey from wherever he’d gone. _“Yes, we don’t want another situation on our hands.”_

“Situation?” Mickey asked, starting to feel like Rip Van fucking Winkle. Had he fallen asleep and missed something important? Like anything important ever happened in fucking laundry. On the other hand, he perked up at the word infirmary. He was definitely up for a chance to see Gallagher in action, so he sagged a little against the edge of the table but refrained from bringing the back of his hand to forehead.

Washington grabbed his elbow, and Mickey nearly fell over as the room tilted. “Let’s get you checked out.”

**Infirmary**

Ian tightened the blood pressure cuff around Chester’s scrawny arm before adjusting his stethoscope, so he could press the chest-piece to the inside of the man’s elbow listening for the brachial artery. As the monitor began to rapidly inflate, he placed the first earpiece in his ear.

And Mickey walked in.

Ian scanned his body, noting that CO Washington had a firm grip on his elbow, and low level panic set in. He couldn’t see any blood or puncture wounds and he was still conscious, but the guards weren’t going to pamper a prisoner if he had a simple tummy ache.

“Ian!” Chester’s deep voice snapped Ian out of the physical assessment he was conducting of his boyfriend from across the room and refocused his attention on the fact that his patient’s arm was turning blue beneath the blood pressure cuff.

He released the inflation bulb and the cuff deflated. “Sorry,” he offered without much conviction, attention still on the new arrivals. “Is something wrong?”

“We need you to check out Milkovich for possible inhalation of toxic fumes,” Washington said.

“Toxic fumes?” Mickey and Ian both said.

“As a precaution,” the CO added, more to the on-call Doctor than to Ian, but Ian rushed toward Mickey intent on getting him onto one of the available beds. “We found him face down in a pile of sheets.”

Ian blinked in surprise, worry spiking his system. That didn’t sound like Mickey, who lectured Ian incessantly about literally watching his back. “What happened?” Ian demanded. “How are you feeling? Lightheaded? Nauseated?” He leaned in close, examining Mickey’s eyes for irritation. “Can you breathe okay?”

“I was fuckin’ nappin’, Ian,” he whispered, giving Ian an exaggerated wink followed by a giggle, which worried Ian more than the bloodshot eyes or paleness of his skin. He pressed Mickey back against the mattress. “Oh, you wanna play doctor, Doctor?”

Reaching for Chester’s blood pressure cuff, Ian announced to the room, “We should definitely keep him here for observation. He’s showing clear signs of cognitive impairment.”

“Speak English, Ian.”

“I am, Mickey.”

“Well, speak English, English like t’ fuckin’ Queen.”

Ian bent closer, running his thumb along Mickey’s forehead, halfheartedly pretending to check for fever. “Cheerio,” Ian whispered.

Mickey giggled again, and Ian glanced around the room, certain that they would see how fucking serious the situation was based on how playful Mickey was being, but no one even looked at them.

His fingers replaced his thumb, and they brushed over Mickey’s hair, leaving Ian petrified over the possibility that he could still lose Mickey. Then he remembered that he was supposed to be a medic, and the room faded from Ian’s attention as he ran through Mickey’s vitals and Mickey ran his hand over Ian’s ass each time it came within range.

“Hey,” Ian said quietly as he recorded Mickey’s elevated heart rate in his chart. “What happened?”

“T’ what?” Mickey whispered back, trying to reach Ian’s ass again.

“You were fine this morning. Any changes in laundry?”

“Come on, _Eeean_ ,” he whined. “Talkin’ ‘bout fuckin’ laundry is killin’ th’ mood.”

“Well, the CO, the Doctor and Chester aren’t helping either.”

Mickey rolled his head along the pillow to check out the rest of the room, eyebrows hiking comically when he spotted Chester next to him. “Fuck, ya still ‘bove ground, ol’ man?” Ian made a note in the chart that his speech was slurred.

“I am because young Gallagher takes good care of me.”

Mickey tried to sit up. “Fuck you say?”

Ian gently pushed him back toward the bed. “He means I’m taking good care of his liver, Mick.”

“And my shingles,” Chester added.

“Playin’ doctor blows, Ian.” He gave Ian a glare like it was his fault that they weren’t naked and rolling around on the narrow bed.

“Mick, this is important.” He bent low so they were face to face and Mickey smiled attentively, like Ian knew he would. “Are you using any new products to do the laundry?”

“Poison.”

“What?”

“Shit smells like poison.”

“What shit?” Ian asked, glancing at the CO. “What smells like poison, Mick?”

“Soap,” he said then returned his attention to the man in the bed beside him. “The fuck ‘r shingles?”

As Chester gave Mickey a medical lesson that nearly put him to sleep, Ian completed his exam then discussed the results with the Doctor, who had requested that they speak to Stewie, since he was the current supervisor of laundry. The group determined that the unit’s laundry should be shut down until they got to the bottom of the situation.

Ian returned to Mickey’s side, listening half-heartedly to his conversation with Chester and noting that his speech was far less slurred than when he’d arrived, but it didn’t set Ian’s mind at ease. They needed to monitor him for at least 24 hours watching for wheezing, vomiting and reduced oxygen delivery.

Mickey’s voice brought him back. “You shackin’ up with anyone new?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” Chester replied. “Am I?”

“Pro’ly can’t find anyone like ol’ Marco, man. He rolled with Nana back in the day,” Mickey snickered, obviously enjoying whatever memories that brought up, leaving Ian to wonder who the hell Nana was and deciding it likely wasn’t Mickey’s grandmother. “Quite a catch, Chester, ya ol’ dog.”

Smiling proudly, Chester nodded in agreement. “Yeah, I do okay with the men.”

“Me too,” Mickey added. “You see the face on that guy?” He pointed in Ian’s general direction.

“Not bad, not bad.”

“Yup,” Mickey agreed, relaxing into his pillow. “Been bangin’ him since he was barely outta diapers.”

“Mickey!” Ian scanned the occupants of the room, offering an embarrassed smile, and wondering if he should put an oxygen mask on that mouth.

“Sounds like a love match,” Chester decided. “High school sweethearts.”

Mickey looked thoughtful then nodded in agreement. “You ever talk ‘bout your relationships, old man? Like a fuckin’ girl with feelings?”

“Sure, how else do you think Marco and I made it...however long we made it? I’m sure it was a long time, one of my longest, if I’m not mistaken.”

“Sounds like a fucking love match,” Mickey smirked.

Chester snapped his fingers, tugging on his IV. “Twelve years!”

“Good for you. Who you talk to, anyway? ‘bout all that?”

“Plenty of men in here with experience in matters of the heart, and even more who love to hear themselves talk. Just need to figure out whose advice is right for you, Mickey.”

Ian was rooted to the spot, wondering if Mickey would remember this conversation and if he’d actually follow through in his search for the ideal candidate. A tiny part of Ian was reluctant to share even a shred of Mickey’s inner thoughts with anyone else. Since he rarely got to hear them, he felt a pang of jealousy that some other dude would know more than him, even if outside perspective was exactly what they needed.

They’d been happy since they got to Beckman, enjoying just being together, but underlying that happiness was a sea of things threatening their future happiness. He could feel it coming like a storm, but he didn’t have the skill to prepare them for whatever it looked like.

**Cell A20**

Ian woke up covered in a layer of sweat, his pillowcase damp against his face from what he feared were tears. Pressing a hand to his erratically beating heart, he tried to get his bearings. The giant “A20” written in reverse on the window pulled him back to his life.

Prison.

He’d been having a dream or maybe a nightmare where he was imprisoned in one of the back rooms of the Fairy Tale. On the other side of the locked, glass door, a long line of men in yellow jumpsuits waited for him. He stood in the center of the tiny room dreading the moment the door opened, knowing they would be all over him. But when the door opened, nothing happened so he walked through the doorway, and as he passed each man, their faces became his own. Hundreds of disappointed Ian’s staring back at him.

And not for the first time, he thanked God that Mickey was here with him even if it was accompanied by guilt. Hanging over the side of his bunk, he contemplated crawling in beside the warm body and snuggling into his presence, but the bed was empty.

For a terrifying moment, Ian wondered if he’d imagined Mickey here. He knew that when he’d been processed and given his inmate uniform, he’d been struggling to balance his meds after several long months off of them. Had he managed to do that or had he gone off the deep end? Could he be that fucked up that he’d conjured the only person who would be able to help him survive this life?

But the thought left as quickly as it arrived when he saw the crude drawings attached to the wall of Mickey’s bunk. The “Death to Roy” art reminded him of the last fight they’d had, over Mickey shoving Roy against the cement wall in the yard and threatening to slice his other cheekbone so they’d match.

Mickey was definitely real, and he was definitely sick in the infirmary, while Ian was stuck in this cell unable to do anything about it. They had forced him to leave at the end of his shift. Prisoners didn’t get to negotiate even when their partner had a medical emergency. He’d urged the Doctor to send him word if anything happened, but who knew if the guy would follow through. The turnover of doctors in prison was so high that Ian felt like he was more familiar with the infirmary than they were, which caused Ian to start his freak out.

Lung infection. Pulmonary edema. Chemical pneumonia. Aspiration. Restricted breathing. Had he thought that Mickey should be monitored for only 24 hours? Clearly, he needed 72 hours! Ian sat up in bed, legs slung over the side. Realization hit him hard. He was imprisoned. In every sense. Helpless. Again. He hated that feeling. He hated it as a child of neglectful parents. He hated it as a teenager in love with an angry boy. He hated it as a mental patient. He hated it as a functioning member of society with a good job because he still couldn’t have the life he’d always thought possible, if only he worked hard.

Now he hated it because the person he loved was imprisoned with poison running through his body because of Ian’s decisions. His stupid fucking decisions. He turned on his side, facing the concrete wall, willing his brain to shut the fuck up.


	3. Episode 1 Recap

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to my American friends. Sending love from your neighboring country. <3

**Here’s what you missed last week on Shameless…**

**Beckman Correctional**

Ian flashed his hall pass at the security booth, assuring the guard inside that he had permission to make the trek between Education and his own cell block alone. While he waited for the familiar buzz of the lock releasing and the door sliding open, he reviewed the last hour of his life, deciding that group therapy had to be one of his least favorite activities, but since he wasn’t considered a danger to himself or others, he didn’t have access to individual therapy.

Earlier in the week, Mickey had stood in their cell, arms crossed, face determined. He’d demanded to know what was up with Ian’s meds, obviously unafraid that Ian would block him when it came to medical shit, which was never going to happen again as far as Ian was concerned. For starters, Ian had nowhere to go, no army to join, no mother to run off with. If prison was teaching him anything, it was how to stick around.

But mostly, he just simply couldn’t deny Mickey whatever information he needed even when it grated on his nerves that Ian couldn’t be completely trusted with his own self-care. He knew Mickey was looking out for him, and there was no logical way Ian could argue that he didn’t need someone consistent in that role. In case hearing the voice of Shim for two months wasn’t enough, the walls and locked doors surrounding him were the final wake-up call he needed.

If Mickey said he was worried about how Ian had been behaving since the toxic fumes incident in the laundry then Ian knew he should be worried too. If he’d been sleeping a little more than usual, if he had even less interest in the prison food, if he’d stopped running on the track, maybe those were hints that he’d tried to ignore, but Mickey had called him on them immediately.

Therefore, between obsessively checking Mickey’s eyes for signs of relapse, he’d agreed to seek professional help.

But he hadn’t felt so off that he’d wanted to fuck around with his current dosages--especially in prison where he was lucky the system hadn’t already fucked around with them. So he’d signed up for group therapy, figuring that it would put Mickey at ease and maybe sort out the shadow of guilt that continued to plague Ian.

He hustled through the doorway, making quick work of the maze of hallways that led to his unit, while deciding that he’d go to the next meeting. The therapist had worked with the inmates on a few behavioral skills to help recognize dangerous thoughts, before the hour had deteriorated into what Ian, uncharitably, labeled a bitch session. Although one guy had brought up that he was celebrating a full year straight on his meds, and everyone had clapped like it was a big deal. It had taken Ian the rest of the meeting to process the idea that he could possibly celebrate being on his meds.

Passing through the final door to his unit, naturally, the first thing to catch his eye was Mickey, holding court outside their cell. Ian located the clock near the entrance to the kitchen. 8:40, which meant Mickey’d had a chance to finish step one of his evening rituals in privacy. Now he was in deep discussion with some dude that Ian didn’t know, so he slipped into their cell unnoticed.

Dumping his journal on the pile of library books, he started to swing himself into his bunk but a small paper bag sitting on his pillow stopped him. The top edge was folded over. Ian glanced at Mickey, getting only the view of his familiar backside. He pulled the bag to the edge of his thin mattress and unfolded the edge, spotting several deep red strawberries followed by the smell of ripe fruit. He stuffed his nose into the bag, closing his eyes so he could focus on one sense only. It had the immediate impact of transporting him outside the prison. He sniffed again, feeling lighter, and released a long sigh.

The door clanged shut, and Ian turned around.

“How?” he demanded.

“Got my ways.”

“Spending money we don’t have on me, Mick?”

That was met with a dismissive shrug. “Always got money for shit you need, Ian.”

Pressing his lips together, he stemmed a surge of emotion. _“Mickey.”_

_“Ian.”_

That made him smile, and he figured he should accept his gift graciously. “Want one?”

“Nah, you eat ‘em.”

Ian extracted one, giving it another quick sniff, then snipped the stem off with his teeth so he could stuff the whole thing in his mouth, planning to savor the next one. _“Mmm,”_ he decided leaning back against the bunk in a casual pose even though his heart was kind of racing.

Mickey watched, micro-grin tucked into his full lips as Ian smacked his own lips together dramatically.

“Come here,” Ian said quietly, holding onto his self-control as tightly as possible. A bunch of yellow jumpsuits were still wandering around outside their cell door in the area Enzo called their front stoop when he accused them of fighting like old broads. “I’ll feed you one.”

He glanced into the bag, pulling out the biggest one to hold up for examination.

“Come here, Mickey.”

Nudging his nose once, Mickey walked forward, stopping with about a foot between them. “Told you they’re yours, man.”

“Then I can decide what to do with them, right?”

Mickey shrugged. “Be my guest.”

“Open up.” He tapped the berry against Mickey’s bottom lip. Then on second thought, ran it along the whole lip. Slowly. _“Mmm.”_

Mickey’s undisciplined tongue joined in the sight, just like he knew it would, and Ian pressed the berry against it, twirling it slightly. He bent a little closer to watch what would happen next, fascinated. What happened was that Mickey’s lips pursed and his eyes flashed to Ian’s.

“What the hell are you doing?” he accused.

“Feeding you,” Ian explained innocently.

“Like a baby or something?”

“No, like a lover.”

“What?” His face got all pinched up but his lips opened a little, and Ian stuffed the tip of the strawberry in the space between them.

“Bite it.”

His teeth snipped the berry, then like clockwork, his tongue appeared again, swiping quickly over the spot the strawberry had touched before disappearing back into his mouth, leaving a streak of red behind.

 _“Mmm,”_ they both said at the same time. Ian swooped in for a kiss, letting his own tongue follow the route Mickey’s had taken.

He pulled away, brought the bag back to his face so he could select another strawberry and stuffed it into his own mouth. “Still some time ‘til lights out,” he said.

“Forty five minutes,” Mickey agreed.

“‘Kay. Gonna savor each one of these.” Ian turned toward his bunk, tossed the bag back on his pillow and hefted himself up. “I’ll be up here waiting for you. Was thinking we could play Doctor.”

Mickey stood in the middle of their cell, looking a little lost.

“I’ll give you a complete physical.”

Ian felt that surge of love again when Mickey continued to look up at him.

“I could read to you until then,” Ian offered, fluffing his pancake of a pillow then leaning back into it and settling the paper bag on his belly. “I got some more Gay Jesus fan mail.”

“In your dreams,” Mickey scoffed, clearly back to himself.

“You don’t want to hear about how I’m an inspiration? Well, an icon really.” He didn’t even try to keep the smile off his face, knowing how much those periodic letters annoyed Mickey. “This latest pen pal thinks we have a connection.”

“I’ll pass, asshole,” he snapped. “You better fucking pass too.”

“Course. I got my hands full here,” he added cryptically.

Mickey frowned at him, but didn’t have anything to add to that. “Guess I’ll go finish my conversation with fuckhead.”

“Gotta at least try to learn some of their names, Mick.”

“I don’t gotta do anything, least of all fill my head with useless fucking information.” He paused as the door slid open. “I’m not a fucking _icon_.”

Ian tipped his head in thoughtful disagreement.

“See ya ‘round, fuckhead,” Mickey said on his way out the door.

“That’s Doctor Fuckhead to you.”

As he enjoyed his strawberries, drawing out the flavor while reclining like a king is his ghetto penthouse, he let his mind wander back in time to when he’d first heard Mickey use his given name, in Ian’s bedroom after his return from the army. Thinking about that now, he should have been astute enough to know that it was meaningful, that Mickey was showing him with the only means he had that Ian was special.

But at the time, Ian had still been hurting and Svetlana had still been his wife, so he felt like he had to make Mickey prove himself with more than the intimacy of first names. He’d wanted a _real_ relationship, or so he’d thought. Turns out that was far more complicated than his naive teenage self could have anticipated, and it remained complicated today.

After watching Mickey’s familiar animated gestures through the cell window for a bit, he started to relax and allowed his eyes to close, thinking about not just the delicious strawberries but also the delicious sex he would be having very soon.

Eventually the door reopened, pulling Ian from the semi-conscious state he’d lapsed into. The paper bag sat empty, except for one lone strawberry that he would reward Mickey with...at some point. He tucked it into the corner of his bunk safely out of the way then turned on his side, shoving a palm under his head to watch Mickey at the sink.

Looking over his shoulder, Mickey pointed his toothbrush at Ian. “You on a strawberry high, dopey?”

“How come we can get literally everything in here except lube?” A little pinch of annoyance tried to worm its way into his bliss. “Oh well, they can never take away our spit.”

He could see Mickey’s eyebrows hike in surprise, and Ian laughed just as the lights dimmed to mid-level signally that the guards would be making their rounds for the final count then giving them an hour long reprieve before the next check-in.

Mickey kicked his slippers into the corner of the cell, as he unbuttoned his yellow jumpsuit.

“Slower,” Ian said, getting a quick look of annoyance. “Please.”

That request met with some eye rolling, lip sucking and sighing, but Mickey’s hands slowed, releasing each button like it was back breaking manual labor. When his FUCK fingers wound around the collar to pull it off, Ian whispered his request again, and the material moved microscopically over one shoulder. Then the other. Then down his torso to his hips.

CO Daniels appeared behind Mickey, his baton tapped twice on the window as part of his count routine. Then they were free.

“Hurry up,” Ian demanded, waving an impatient hand at him.

Mickey gave him a withering look, but got the jumpsuit off quickly, while Ian did the same, laying back on his bunk and maneuvering free of his jumpsuit too. He pressed his back to the concrete wall to make room for Mickey, who laid down beside him staring up at the stained ceiling, apparently deep in thought.

Ian rested his palm flat against the white material covering Mickey’s belly, slowly making his way to the bottom of the t-shirt, then back up again taking the material with him and exposing the smooth skin underneath. He didn’t stop until he could see Mickey’s nipples, which he circled with his index finger, feeling them harden just slightly. He tipped forward to lick one, listening for Mickey’s breathing patterns because he still seemed distracted.

His tongue played with a peak for a moment then made a path toward his boxers, leaving a few kisses as well. Running a finger under the elastic, he felt the tip of Mickey’s erection and smiled into the firm belly. He was never too distracted to respond to Ian’s touch.

One tug on the elastic and Ian’s tongue could roam freely over the sensitive tip, licking a path down to the base and back up. He was about to release the flesh completely and get rid of Mickey’s boxers when something smacked him in the cheek. Figuring it wasn’t important, he sucked Mickey further into his mouth and started the slow slide back up when he felt it again.

Reluctantly, he released Mickey and leaned up to look at him. “What?”

The generic condiment packet landed on Mickey’s belly like a gauntlet thrown.

 _“What!?”_ Ian repeated.

“Close your mouth. Gonna catch flies,” he said, nudging Ian’s chin with his finger tip so he’d meet Mickey’s eyes. “Just this once.”

“But...why now?”

“Fuck you asking questions for? Thought you’d jump at this chance.”

“Well, yeah, I miss lube but you don’t have to do this, Mickey,” Ian said, starting to feel his guilt creep back in. “I’m fine, okay? Therapy was good. I feel good. I’m not slipping!”

“The world doesn’t revolve around you, Ian,” he said without heat. In fact, his palm cupped Ian’s face where it was still hovering near his groin. “I _need_ to get fucked, man. Like good and fucked. Mind numbingly fu--”

Ian scooted up his body, so he could shut him up with a hungry kiss. “Okay, just this once. Agreed.”

Their mouths met again, messy and wet and desperate now that something resembling lube was part of their plan. Mickey pushed Ian away, kicking his underwear to the end of the bunk and flipping onto his knees. He glanced at Ian over his shoulder. “Make it count, Ian.”

“Jesus,” Ian breathed, tossing the mayo packet on the mattress and getting rid of all his clothes. He pressed a kiss to Mickey’s ass cheek, then smacked it hard enough to leave a slight blush. “Take your shirt off, too.”

Mickey’s shirt landed near Ian’s and he returned to his hands and knees, erection bobbing with his movements and Ian ripped into the packet, blocking out his hesitation. Once he squeezed some where it was needed, he hid the packet under the paper bag containing the lone strawberry not wanting to be reminded that this was not a great idea or that it would be a long time until they had the real thing.

His lips found each bump on Mickey’s spine, while his fingers easily prepped Mickey for the pounding he’d requested. Even the feel of his fingers slickly gliding in and out of Mickey’s body was fucking fantastic. Based on the heavy breathing coming from the body beneath him, he figured Mickey was getting off on the feeling of Ian inside him too.

As predicted though, Mickey got impatient fast, his foot twining with Ian’s calf to yank him in the direction he wanted. “Good,” he huffed.

Wrapping a hand around himself, Ian shifted his hips forward watching his erection disappear inside Mickey’s body without even the slightest resistance.

“Jesus Christ,” he groaned, pulling out just as slowly. By the third re-entry, his words were nothing more than a stream of consciousness because he wasn’t capable of much actual thought. His brain was too busy fucking Mickey.

That foot smacked his calf again and he picked up the pace, attempting to meet Mickey’s very specific criteria for getting fucked good and hard. Ian had years of experience pleasing him, and he wasn’t letting their one time with substitute lube go to waste.

But it started to feel too good, too fast, which meant he needed to shake it up. Grabbing Mickey’s hips, he sat back onto his calves, pulling Mickey into his lap. The weight of his body forced Mickey to accept Ian deeply inside him, and that caused some grunts that went straight to Ian’s spine. He released one hand to brace himself, and then he got to work, building up a decent sweat in minutes.

Mickey was moaning really fucking loudly though, and his hands tried to grip Ian’s hips, to find something to hold onto, so Ian cupped them inside his and pressed them to Mickey’s thighs. Never slowing the movement of his hips even when his thighs burned with exertion.

The lights dimmed further, and Ian remembered that they were in a very vulnerable position. While guards generally ignored this kind of activity when it was mutual and not in public spaces, sometimes they were looking for a fight or to set an example, sometimes they were new and still trying to follow the rules.

“We need to hurry,” he whispered in Mickey’s ear.

Mickey didn’t appear to hear or maybe care since his only response was to groan louder. “Sshh,” Ian said between grunts. His reprimand did nothing. The noises from his mouth just got louder. “Quiet. Enzo is gonna read us the riot act any minute.”

“Fuck him,” Mickey spat. “Harder, Ian, come on.”

Ian fucked into Mickey, holding him in place with their joined hands, and Mickey’s groans turned to swears.

 _“Mickey,”_ he hissed. “Gimme your fucking mouth.”

He released the grip they had on each other's hands so he could tip Mickey’s chin enough to kiss him, silencing the noise. While their tongues slid together, Ian pushed the paper bag aside so he could slick up his hand once more. It was definitely time to help Mickey come. Ian wasn’t going to be able to keep this up much longer, and in fact, neither was Mickey. It didn’t take many strokes to feel warmth covering his hand.

Biting into the tense muscle of Mickey’s shoulder, he screamed internally at how fucking good it felt and at how much he hated that it was over. His tongue traced the indents he’d made in the flesh, then he pressed a few final kisses into the side of his neck until his lips reached Mickey’s ear.

“Fucking you is the best experience of my life,” he vowed.

Mickey pried his eyes open to give Ian an assessing look. “Been saying that since the first time we banged.”

“Still true,” Ian shrugged, gripping Mickey’s hips and lifting him carefully out of his lap but stopping him before his face could connect with the pillow. “Nope, need to clean up before we pass out.”

“Just one minute, then we can worry about that shit.”

“Up.”

“Fuck, fine.”

Together, they hopped down, using their one worn wash cloth to remove as much evidence as possible before Ian guided them to Mickey’s bunk and their clothes.

“I’ll be the one to move later,” he said, reaching up to his own bed for the paper bag because Mickey had more than earned his treat. The mayo packet sat accusingly beside his pillow, and Ian tossed it toward the trash can, determined to never think of it again.


	4. Episode 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since Mickey and Ian are finally in this episode, the written scenes are built around the canon scenes, so you'll now find links to Tue's videos.

**Cell A20**

[Watch “Sick of the smell of goddamn mayonnaise” courtesy of Tue](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AgSa3o0-R10)

**Chow Hall**

Tired of staring at the stupid barbed wire tattoo on the bald head in front of him in the breakfast line, Mickey scanned the hall, spotting Ian when he entered the kitchen. His big, bright head like a neon fucking stop sign. He ignored Mickey and plopped down at the table beside Cobb or Dallas. Mickey could never remember who was who even though he spent most mornings with them, listening to their gangbanger antics. Shithead always wanted to sit with them while they ate whatever the prison passed off as a hot fucking meal.

The line shuffled forward two steps, and Mickey got a view of the silver warming dishes and a bowl of mayo packets.

“Fuck’s sake,” he spat, thinking about how their plan to only use it once had turned into a month long fuck fest that had forever ruined his favorite condiment for him. “Fucking fuck.”

Tattoo head turned around to glare at him. “You got a problem, Rabbit?”

“If I did,” Mickey spat. “I wouldn’t make an appointment with your secretary so I could tell you all about it. Mind your fucking self, Paulie.”

“Were you born grumpy?”

“Yes.” He waved his fingertips in Paulie’s face, signalling him to turn around just as they moved another couple steps forward.

Grabbing a plastic tray, he looked at the first selection. It was probably scrambled eggs, which usually pissed him off because who wants fucking eggs when there’s no bacon to go with it. The server dumped a pile into the top left section of his tray, then added what could loosely be called toast before finishing it off with the fruit cocktail that drove Ian nuts.

Sandy needed to get his scratch together pronto because the laundry had been closed almost six weeks while they fixed the ventilation system and found less potent laundry soap options, so he wasn’t making any money and starting to feel the pinch. Next thing, he wouldn’t be able to afford any extra food, and that was the worst fucking fate there was in prison. To be stuck with only what was served to you three times a day.

Plus he had heard rumblings that some other entrepreneur was starting up a store, loaning out coke, smokes and Snickers bars then collecting on their canteen price plus 30%. Maybe Mickey needed to have a chat with this dude, make sure he understood that Mickey was in the market for a business associate, someone to ride with. He wasn’t going back to hustling for protection or revenge. Those were dark days, possibly his darkest. Fucking people up for money was in his past. There were smarter ways to make money.

Moving away from the chow line with his breakfast, he scanned the sea of yellow and shuffled to the opposite end of the hall from where his prison wife sat. No way would he be Ian’s trained monkey, sitting wherever the guy wanted. He wasn’t in the mood to be gracious and acknowledge that he didn’t fucking care where they sat, so he’d been perfectly content to let Ian decide. Nope, today, he was sure that Ian was a pissy bitch who had to always have his way.

It came down to the fact that he was tired as hell of seeing Ian’s face every time he turned around. They’d been in lockdown more often than not between flu and riots and a guard on C Block getting shanked. They’d spent more time locked in their cell than all his other stints in the can combined.

Scanning the hall once more, he decided to find himself a poor sucker to bear the brunt of his bad mood. He made his way in the direction of a new fish, fresh from the open water and clearly aware that a shark was circling. The dude looked at Mickey in fear then immediately down to his tray, shoveling food in as fast as his mouth would allow. Mickey dropped his tray down with a clang, sending a warning to the room at large. Then he dropped his ass down to the bench with an exaggerated sigh.

“Hey,” he said to the kid, who tried to nod but nearly choked on his dry toast. Mickey pinched his lips in frustration as the fun in tormenting the guy dissolved. Jesus, he was tired. Tired of living this fucking life. What he wouldn’t give to just fucking settle down, like a normal person, and do whatever he imagined normal people did. Instead, he was stuck in this shithole, fighting with Ian over the twelve things they had in their goddamn cell.

His angry gaze landed on bright white teeth, one table over. Fucking Roy Franchetti, the snake. Perfect. He had no qualms about taking his anger out on that asshole. They had years’ old unfinished business, and today seemed like the perfect day to have a chit chat.

Mickey linked his fingers in front of his face, making sure to crack each and every knuckle. The kid grabbed his tray and fled, dropping the whole thing in the trash can on his way out.

“Hey, kid,” he tried yelling at his disappearing back but got no response. When he returned his attention in the direction of his nemesis, instead of seeing that stupid ass grin, he met with the oversized gut of his least favorite guard and the dusting of powdered sugar from a donut that coated his dark uniform.

“Milkovich. Finish your... _eggs_.”

Mickey looked down at the mess on his tray, nodding slowly. “That settles the dispute then.”

Ignoring Mickey’s attempt at chow hall humor, the CO continued, “Laundry is reopened. Got 10 minutes till your shift starts.”

“Thanks for all the heads up,” he mumbled, giving up on his dream of enjoying breakfast.

“What’s that, _inmate_ Milkovich?”

“Nothing, boss.”

“You sure?”

“Yes, boss.”

**Chow Hall**

“Yo, G,” Cobb said when Ian dropped into the seat next to where he was eating breakfast with Dallas. “You look ready to shiv some poor fucker. Trouble in paradise?”

“You can say that again.” Ian refused to look across the kitchen. He _refused_ to look at Mickey’s ex-lover who was watching Mickey shuffle forward in the breakfast line, and he especially _refused_ to look at Mickey as he scowled at the food choices.

What he didn’t refuse to do was build up his frustration _thinking_ about Mickey. The guy was so fucking aggravating sometimes. Pushing Ian off of him in disgust, like he hadn’t been equally responsible for their continued decision to use that fucking mayo. That wasn’t all on Ian! 

Maybe he’d get lucky and the kitchen would be offering potato salad with lunch, and Ian could smuggle some back to their cell. Show him!

“Woah, dog,” Dallas waved a hand in his face. “Only thing harder than prison romance is long distance romance.”

Cobb nodded. “Rarely works, but don’t mean it ain’t worth trying.”

“Gotta find a way to chill though, man.”

“I asked Raymond for a new roommate this morning,” Ian explained. “Apparently, it’s harder than that.”

His two breakfast buddies snickered, not bothering to reply, and Ian understood something that he’d forgotten in his aggravation. He was a prisoner.

“I was so frustrated I forgot that I have no rights,” he said.

“For the best, G. You don’t want a new cellie, trust me on that. Crap shoot that just ain’t worth it.”

“Yeah,” he agreed. Desperation had led him to ask. He didn’t want a new person in his cell; he wanted his happy, loving boyfriend back. “I don’t really want that anyway.”

A loud clang got his attention, and he glanced in the direction, spotting Mickey as he dropped to the bench across from a young kid, who clearly had to be a new arrival.

“Your boy looks pissed,” Cobb commented, giving Dallas a knowing smile. “What’d you do?”

“What do you mean, what did I do?” Ian was offended that they thought this was Ian’s fault and not joint responsibility at least.

“That boy’s got it bad for you. Whole fucking block knows that, so…” He spread his hands as though the rest should be obvious.

“I--need to get to work.” He stood up angrily.

“Didn’t eat, dog.”

“Not fucking hungry.”

He stomped away from the seating area, pausing at the doorway so the guard could make sure he wasn’t smuggling goddamn fruit cocktail out of dining and into G-pop where he’d get rich off it.

This place had a way of getting to you.

**Laundry**

Back in laundry after weeks away, Mickey sniffed the air, wondering what exactly he thought he’d been missing about the place. Lockdowns, boredom, Ian’s endless nagging. Was all that actually worse than being a slave to the spin cycle? Well, maybe Ian’s nagging was, but the rest probably not.

Since he definitely missed having the ability to wash his own clothes properly, he’d taken to wearing his shit much longer than Ian thought was advisable, but he fucking knew that the assholes in laundry always throw inmate clothing in with old mop ends or aprons covered in kitchen grease, and he’d end up smelling like that all week if he wasn’t careful.

 _Beats fucking mayo_ , he thought.

Ignoring that thought, he started sorting the bags looking for familiar names of dudes willing to pay for his special services. The morning actually flew by, and he found himself at the folding table, a sea of sheets in front of him.

“Yo,” he shouted at the two new guys. “Gimme a hand here.”

Folding sheets was definitely a two person job, and there were two of them, so Mickey planned to pawn the job off. He’d fold the pillow cases, like a good supervisor. Old Man Stewie hadn’t arrived yet, so Mickey claimed the role of boss.

As the two punks efficiently folded sheets, impressing Mickey with their dedication, he halfheartedly tossed around a few pillow cases while thinking about that damn redhead yet again.

“Hey, Rabbit,” said the skinnier of the two punks, who got an elbow in the ribs from the other kid followed by a hissed “sssh”. Then they started muttering to each other until the gutsier of the two straightened his shoulders.

“We heard you’re called Rabbit cause you escaped from prison.”

“Yeah, a Jack Rabbit escape,” the other one couldn’t resist adding, like Mickey needed an education in prison lingo. He’d been raised on it, for chrissake. Practically his first language.

He eyed the pair of them, focusing a moment on the struggling goatee on the one kid’s chin. It’s not as if he wasn't aware that he had a reputation, or that these two knuckleheads watched him like he might do something memorable, but he also wasn’t particularly interested in having anyone’s attention. Unless it meant that he could make some money off of it.

“You figure you’ve earned the right to talk to me?” He gave them his best disbelieving look, which he’d perfected because he was constantly amazed by the world. “How much time you got under your belt?” he asked them both.

“Over three months,” said one.

“Nearly seven months,” said the other.

“In total, not just this stint?” he explained.

They stared at him, confused.

“Christ,” he muttered to himself. “Lemme guess, doing time for possession.”

They nodded.

“This ain’t the Holiday Inn, get back to folding,” he commanded. They complied but kept giving him hopefully eyes until he caved. “‘Kay, don’t sound like you got much experience. For instance, how many times you been shot?”

More blank stares.

“Fine. I’ll give you that one. Not everyone’s been shot. How ‘bout stabbed?”

Still nothing.

“You at least shiv someone?” When they shook their heads in tandem, he sighed. “The fuck do you do with your days? Help old ladies cross the street? Tell me you at least jacked a car.”

Goatee’s hand shot up like Mickey was his English teacher and he knew the answer to the question.

“I did!” His excitement dipped a bit. “Well, it was my Auntie’s beamer, but my cousin and me had to watch a YouTube video to learn how to jack it while she was sleeping. Does that count?”

“Uh, yeah, sure. Did you sell it?”

“No. We took it to get Tacquitos from 7-Eleven.”

“Christ.” Kids today, he lamented, then he remembered Ian saying they should have friends to talk to about their relationship. It seemed like he might end up having to resort to that shit, in order to avoid stabbing his own boyfriend, but he drew the line at talking to guys he hung out with, that was just too fucking weird. These two, however, were several steps below him on the food chain, so they might do. “Either of you punks been in a relationship?”

They both raised their hands at that, and Mickey nodded. “Currently? From prison?”

Goatee lowered his hand, disappointed, but that still left Mickey one taker.

“Okay,” he began, tossing the mangled pillow case aside. “I’m askin’ for a friend, got it?”

They nodded and Mickey stared them down.

“So my _friend_ shares a cell with his partner,” he paused ensuring they understood. “The partner asked to see the Warden so he could get a new roommate.” He felt the familiar peevishness bubble up, while his captivated audience waited for more information.

“The fucking idiot thinks you can just up and ask for a new cellie, like you’re gonna get a fucking luncheon with the Warden to chat about your housing situation or some shit.”

“No way,” his new confidante replied. “Gotta fill out a bunch of forms for that.”

“Exactly!” Mickey injected, tossing his hands in the air. “This ain’t the fucking Ritz.”

“Not even the Holiday Inn,” buddy added, and Mickey gave him a look making sure he wasn’t yanking his chain.

“You need the forms?” the other guy asked. “I can get them for you.”

“No!” Mickey barked. He didn’t want Ian to leave; he wanted him to...stop being so fucking annoying. That’s it. How was that so fucking hard?

“You don’t want him to leave?” The pair of them had long since stopped folding and were looking at him, with what might be sympathy. “You want Gay Jesus to stay?”

“The fuck you talkin’ about?” He glared at them. “This shit ain’t about me. Told you that.”

Now he was in danger of these two boneheads knowing his shit, knowing that he cared about Ian’s petty request. Fuck, knowing that he cared enough to _talk_ about it. This is what he got for babying Ian. The guy doesn’t have the first clue about real prison, thinks someone will take care of him.

 _Yeah, well, who the fuck will take care of you when Ian leaves?_ That question hit him hard, unexpected and unwanted. Now, who was the fucking baby?

“This heart to heart is over.” He turned toward his pile of pillow cases, determined to stop this talking bullshit. If he wasn’t careful, the whole block would see how soft he’d really become.

“Are you gonna tell us about your escape?”

Mickey bit his lip in aggravation, realizing that he’d given away far too much. It was time to remind them who he was and what he was allegedly capable of.

Tossing the pillow case back on the pile of unfolded laundry, he leaned in. “How long you think it would take to dig your way to the sewer system from your cell using a fuckin’ spoon?”

**Infirmary**

After pulling a pair of surgical gloves onto his hands, Ian opened the door to the sterilization unit, releasing a puff of steam as he began organizing the clean bed pans onto the supply shelf. Ernesto was napping, and Ian had been assigned clean up duty until Chester arrived for his daily IV drip.

They’d heightened their cleaning procedures in an attempt to reduce infection and the lockdowns that resulted when sickness started spreading throughout the prison. Ian was down for anything that would give him and Mickey a break from each other. It really took him by surprise how easily they’d slipped into this petty fighting. When they’d been together in the past, they’d never had a chance to find out if they were compatible because they seemed to always have some sort of crisis to deal with. Who had time to fight over toenail clippings when your boyfriend’s wife was threatening to kill you with a hammer?

Sometimes their past overwhelmed him. They’d fought so hard for each other, but never at the same time. Now it felt to Ian like they had stopped fighting _for_ each other because they were so busy fighting _with_ each other.

He was starting to worry that they would end their sentence apart if they didn’t find a way to get over this rough patch. No way was he going back to the days when Mickey was out of his reach, when he didn’t know what they were to each other. But Ian was afraid to talk to Mickey, to ask him why he always seemed angry. What if he didn’t like the answer he got?

“Good morning, Ian,” Chester said from the doorway as the guard delivered him to the infirmary. “I’m here for my pick-me-up.”

“Hey, Chester.”

The Doctor unlocked the cabinet, gathering a needle and supplies to start Chester’s IV, and Ian spotted the stack of SurgiLube tubes through the glass. Of course, he’d known the lube was there all along, had even been present for a prostate exam, but he’d never taken so much as a fucking tongue depressor. It would certainly be a lucrative hustle, but all the supplies were counted, recounted and counted again. If they suspected him, it would be simple to search his cell as he had nowhere to hide whatever he pilfered. Theft from the infirmary was a huge risk, one he hadn’t been willing to take. But today, he seriously considered finding a way to sneak some surgical lubricant out.

“You ready, Gallagher?” The Doctor snapped his attention away from the supply cabinet, which was now locked. “You wanted to practice inserting the needle.”

[Watch “A mini vacation” courtesy of Tue](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qBGfXpgizkI&t=3s)

**Cell A20**

[Watch “Where’s the shiv?” courtesy of Tue](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=COzfg-QJzrY)

While Ian continued to stare out the window of the now locked cell door, shiv dangling from his hand, Mickey sat back down on his bunk in defeat. He would have laughed at how disgruntled Ian was when the cell door slammed shut in his stupid face, but it also meant that they were stuck together in the tiny room once again, and Ian apparently wanted nothing more than to get away from him.

“Fuck you,” he muttered, thinking about Ian leaving him all the damn time. No fucking way was Ian the one doing the leaving. Mickey would be the one who did the fucking leaving even if it meant stabbing some old queen. Well, at the moment, nobody was doing the leaving, but when the time came, Ian would be the one left behind.

Was the fucker just gonna stand there all damn day looking out the window and ignoring Mickey? He picked up the ballpoint pen again, giving the end a good, hard clicking. Once, twice. Yet another one of his stationary supplies that Ian got his mitts on that was now useless to Mickey. The guy was always touching his shit, especially his fucking pens and pencils then wrecking them.

_Click, click._

“Would you just fucking stop?” Ian barked, turning back to Mickey and taking several steps forward so he could wave the shiv near Mickey’s face, sending Mickey’s eyebrows into outer space.

“Watch it, Gallagher,” he threatened.

“You watch it,” Ian responded then turned his back on Mickey, and Mickey figured it was finally time the asshole learned to watch his back. He leapt straight from his seated position on the bottom bunk to Ian’s back, tightening his arms and legs around Ian’s body like vices.

Ian tried to buck him off, but Mickey remained glued to him, determined now to take the shiv away from Ian. It was his chance to finally get the upper hand.

“Get...off,” Ian panted, twisting to the left and right once more, but Mickey clung.

“Gimme the shiv, ass wipe.”

“Never!”

Ian bent forward, shifting Mickey’s center of gravity and he slid to the right, but managed to tighten his thighs around Ian’s waist. The movement, however, sent Ian to his knees, giving Mickey a moment to grab for the shiv because Ian was too distracted by the impact.

But the redhead moved fast, always so fucking fast, forcing Mickey to ram his chest into Ian’s shoulder and they both fell forward. Ian’s hand which was holding the shiv ended up trapped beneath his body, and Mickey tried to yank him to the side intending to free the weapon.

“Gimme it,” he hissed, grabbing a handful of Ian’s hair, not above some pulling if that’s what it took.

“Over my...dead body, _bitch_.”

He was letting Ian have that shiv over _his_ dead body, all right. Remembering the pen in his hand, he shoved it near Ian’s ear and clicked it twice, feeling elation when he saw the mutinous set of Ian’s jaw. But his victory was short lived when the cell door opened.

“Enough, you damn fools,” Raymond’s voice washed over them. “Get up, Milkovich, lockdown was a false alarm.”

Mickey felt the CO grip the neck of his jumpsuit and yank him away from Ian, who at least had the brains to remain on his belly, shiv protected from the guard’s eyes.

“Get your ass to the yard and cool off,” he commanded once Mickey got to his feet. “You okay, Gallagher?”

Ian lifted his head, a pained smile on his face. “Yeah, fine, just getting my breath.”

Raymond gave Mickey a light shove out the door. “Well, you’re confined to your cell while Milkovich cools off. Not letting the two of you near each other until you get your shit together.”

**Yard**

Enzo strolled up to Mickey, where he leaned against the brick wall and half-heartedly watched a bunch of inmates in an aggressive game of basketball. Nearly an hour had passed since Raymond sent him to the yard to cool off, and he could tell it wasn’t working. He felt agitated and honestly didn’t know what lay at the core of it. Could it really be just that Ian kept using his pens, and every time Mickey needed one it didn’t fucking work?

His blood started to boil again, and he seriously doubted his sanity. For three years, he’d missed Ian like a fucking lost limb and now that they were together, he couldn’t get past petty shit?

Unable to ignore the glare that Enzo was giving him, Mickey finally looked at him. He didn’t have to tilt his head because the guy stood eye to eye with Mickey, but he was momentarily distracted by the thickness of his dark unibrow.

“Where’s the wife?” Enzo asked, clearly trying to egg Mickey on.

“Getting her nails done.”

Mickey saw the corners of Enzo’s thin lips quirk. “So, you manage to stab Chester yet?”

“No,” Mickey grunted, turning away in aggravation. A group of maximum security prisoners exited into the yard on the other side of the wire fence; their orange jumpsuits a vivid reminder of Mickey’s past.

“Well,” Enzo continued, “if you don’t manage to do it, could you stab me instead? Put me out of my misery?”

Mickey gave the guy a once over, wondering briefly, very briefly, if he might be a candidate for the role of friend, but ditched that idea almost immediately. The guy already knew way too fucking much about his and Ian’s relationship.

“If we had more than one shiv, I’d happily stab every fucker in lockup,” Mickey agreed. “Starting with you.”

The basketball bounced off the brick wall near Mickey’s head, and he lifted a finger at the punk who ran over to get it.

Enzo turned toward Mickey, resting his shoulder against the wall. “You know what? I’m gonna head back to my cell now. I’ll leave my shiv in the vent in case you need it,” he offered. “Making this sacrifice in the name of sanity.”

Mickey nodded in agreement.

“Just make sure you get fucking caught. I can’t with you two broads anymore.”

Enzo pushed away and Mickey watched him head across the yard, until his attention was drawn back toward the fence that separated the banana skins from the orange peels. He narrowed his eyes against the sunlight as he scanned the men, wondering if he’d see anyone from the old days.

**Infirmary**

[Watch “I stabbed Chester, send me to solitary” courtesy of Tue](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E0wgxTV5KQs)

**Holding Area**

[Watch “I stabbed him first” courtesy of Tue](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z5UZLQ3xhbE)

“I’m not kidding,” Unit Manager Mike Raymond threatened. “I don’t take murder lightly.”

Blessed silence followed that announcement, and Raymond wondered how he’d ended up saddled with these two assholes, putting up with their endless bickering. Even as he’d approached the holding area, where the two inmates were cuffed to the bench and bickering about fucking toe nail clippings, the air around them crackled with unresolved issues. The entire state correctional system was a sea of unresolved issues, 32,000 men who didn't have a goddamn clue how to sort their shit out living in quarters that were a breeding ground for dredging up past traumas.

But these two were the ones threatening to push him past his tolerance level and make him resort to murder. It was one thing to manage squabbles between two inmates with a hard on for each other; it was another thing when they literally had a hard on for each other, especially when the relationship clearly went back so far that their unresolved shit would fill a bloody ocean.

He stopped in front of the two inmates, watching them actively ignore each other. The electronic exits could swing wide open, and Raymond was sure neither of them would notice, as focused as they were on giving each other the cold shoulder.

“Because Chester refuses to press charges, you idiots won’t be charged with attempted murder and spend the rests of your natural lives behind these bars.”

Raymond saw the relief cross both of their faces, followed by what he was sure was more scheming. The pair of them needed the wake up call they were about to get.

"As much as I'd love to see you both in the hole for the next month,” he began. “We still got you for possession of a weapon, and the Warden has a nice punishment all ready.”


	5. Episode 2 Recap

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few people told me that they either didn't get a notification of yesterday's update or it came super late, so I wanted to make sure that you didn't miss Episode 2 which was posted yesterday. Hope you're all doing okay!

**Here’s what you missed on the last episode of Shameless....**

**Showers**

Mickey stepped out of the bathroom stall, toilet brush held out in front of his body like a weapon. “Pass me the spray bottle of bleach shit,” he demanded, even though he’d only need to take two more steps to reach it himself, so Ian ignored him.

“Yo, numbnuts,” he tried again.

Ian gave him a long look before replying. “Why? You even know what to do with it? Since you don’t have much experience with cleaning supplies and all.”

“At least I fucking know how to make a shiv outta this toilet brush,” he retorted shoving the wet end of the brush too close to Ian’s face. “Fucking toothbrush. _Pfft_.”

“Fuck off with that, Mickey!” Ian yelped when he felt a droplet hit his cheek. “That’s gross!”

The shower room door cracked open, and CO Armstrong’s face appeared, her perpetual scowl in place. “This is your one warning, gentlemen. If you see my beautiful mug again, you’ll get another week of bathroom duty.” The door shut on that threat leaving the two inmates to glare at each other.

“Asshole,” they hissed then fell silent as Ian finished wiping down the urinals and Mickey hoarded the bleach shit. Eventually, they met in the large shower area, still silent as they looked around helplessly.

“How the fuck we clean this area?” Mickey muttered, head swiveling around the 30 person shower. “Pour bleach over it?”

“Don’t have enough bleach. Use the mop?” Ian suggested. “And spray the walls with that bleach shit you keep hoarding like it’s the apocalypse.”

“Feels like the fucking apocalypse.”

Ian didn’t completely disagree. Cleaning a bathroom after hundreds of guys used it was life changing. “You mop. I’ll wipe.”

“Fucking fine.”

A few minutes later, Armstrong’s face appeared and they froze. She nodded and disappeared.

“Jesus Christ,” Ian said. “A month of this torture was not worth stabbing Chester over.”

“I’m gonna stab his ancient ass three more times for duping your stupid ass.”

“Your ass was duped too,” Ian added.

“By _your_ dumb ass. What else is fucking new?” Mickey muttered over the sound of the pail filling with water. “That dude has nine fucking lives.” 

"He needed every one of them the way you went to town on him, Mickey!"

Snorting loud enough for Ian to hear over the racket he was making, Mickey glanced at him. "You think one little nick in the arm is gonna get the guy's release canceled? This ain't fucking Disneyland. Do the job right or don't do it at all. The point is he can't fucking walk out of here, Ian."

He made a couple quick stabbing motions then went back to filling his pail of water, conversation over, and all Ian could do was shake his head at the absurdity of the whole situation. He must have been desperate to actually go through with that whole plan.

After a few minutes of silent scrubbing, his need to fill the soul sucking boredom with conversation kicked in. “Why do they have a female guard monitoring the showers anyway? Isn’t that a violation of some human rights?”

“Probably. If we still had any human rights.” Mickey sloshed water everywhere, clearly unfamiliar with the concept of a mop as well as cleaning supplies. “Worked to my advantage though.”

“What’d a ya mean?” Ian asked, giving the next section of shower tiles a thorough spraying.

“Before I rabbited, I caught a bitch CO staring at my junk a couple times while I was showering. Claimed she needed to enter the shower for some bullshit reasons. Used her interest in what I was packin’ to con her into helping me escape.”

Ian watched him work the mop through the strainer attached to the pail. “She was checking you out while you were in the shower?” Of all the shit that Ian knew Mickey had been through, this shit really pissed him off. He had no escape and no recourse, while someone in a position of power abused their role. Mickey'd dealt with that too fucking much.

“Yeah, surprised me too actually.” The mop hit the cement floor and sent more droplets of water in Ian’s direction. “Put on a bit of a show for her. Made sure I wasn’t hallucinating, ya know.”

Ian could only gawk at Mickey, realizing that he’d never gotten the horrifying details about his escape. That whole road trip had been a haze of sex and high anxiety while they ignored everything important.

“Turns out, I wasn’t imaging shit,” he concluded, glancing up from his mopping. “You gonna stand there like a fucking statue? Cause I ain’t doing your fucking work for you, man.”

Ian gave the tiles a half-assed swipe with his rag. “Then what? Did you...you know?”

This was met with a chuckle. “Did I _you know_? Fuck her? Go down on her?” The chuckle intensified when he caught sight of Ian’s face, which must have given away his horror. Horror over Mickey’s words and Ian’s own memories that he’d tried to bury so deep it'd take a lifetime to dig them up.

“Shit, Ian,” he said, chuckle turning to a concerned frown. “You look like you saw a ghost.”

“I slept with a woman,” he blurted out.

“The fuck?” Mickey’s eyebrows rose then dropped quickly. “Bullshit.”

Ian shook his head, partly in denial but also to dislodge from his brain the feel and taste and scent that lingered in those memories and reminded him how dishonest he’d been to himself by going through with something he knew he didn’t want to do.

“What do you mean ‘slept’?” Mickey stared at him. “Fucked?”

Ian nodded. “And the other...thing.”

Mickey chuckled again. “You suddenly turning into a prude?”

Hating this conversation, he returned his attention to the wall, trying to rub the finish off the tile beneath his rag.

“Why the fuck did you do that?” Mickey demanded. “No fucking way it was your idea. Did you do it for money?”

“The second time,” he muttered, still set on polishing that one single tile.

Mickey’s sigh could possibly be heard in the neighboring cell block, and Ian glanced over his shoulder to see him start to scrub a blue gloved hand over his face to calm himself then realized the glove was wet. He scowled at it, offended by its presence before finally meeting Ian’s eyes.

“Okay, okay, shit, why’d you do it the first time?”

“I don’t know.”

“That won’t fly, Gallagher. You told me, so now you’re gonna tell.”

Releasing his own sigh, Ian tried to explain. “Someone made me doubt that I could be... sure I'm totally gay because I'd never tried...women.”

“Who’s this _someone?_ ” he demanded, and Ian’s heart started to thud as he kicked himself for bringing it up. Mickey wasn’t going to let it go and Ian hated feeling like he needed to hide all this shit from him.

“A guy I was seeing.”

“Jesus Christ.”

Ian felt shame creep up the back of his neck and along his cheekbones as he tried to remember exactly _what_ convinced him to go through with it.

“And the second time?”

More memories surfaced. Following that couple upstairs, seeing the lust on their faces, hating himself for needing to do this to win back Trevor and prove his worth by getting that money. More shit in the long list of shit he wished he didn’t have to think about. Let alone talk about.

“Raising money for a shelter,” he finally whispered. “That helps at-risk youth.”

“Are you fucking kidding me right now, Ian?”

He turned partially away, twisting the rag between his gloved hands. “I’m sorry, I--”

“You’re fucking sorry?” Mickey shouted, then pursed his lips but the bathroom door didn’t open. He stepped closer, voice quiet. “Ian, Jesus, you don’t have to be sorry. Fucking assholes have been taking advantage of you for so long, you don’t even fucking see it.”

“Mickey, I--”

“Don’t tell me you make your own decisions or some shit like that. Maybe you do, maybe you don’t, but you fucking think you have to let people use your body. That it's for fucking sale.”

Ian lifted his chin, fully set on ignoring how close Mickey had just come to Ian's own fears. “I used my _head_ to get an EMT certificate! I’m not fucking stupid.”

“Calm your tits--fuck, sorry,” he waved a hand at Ian like even the mention of tits would trigger him then his eyebrows shot up. "Jesus, your fucking tattoo, man."

Ignoring that, Ian challenged, “Besides, _you_ just told me you used your body to escape from prison, Mickey. How’s that any different, huh?”

After chewing on his lip for a moment, eyes shooting around the shower stall, Mickey faced him again. “On the surface, sure, there’s similarities. But I’ve fucked plenty of women, not very successfully, but it’s not outside my...realm. That’s sure as shit not true for you. But mostly, the big difference is that I’m the predator not the prey, which now that I say it out loud doesn’t sound so great.”

“You’re saying I’m the prey?” He took a step back, needing to suddenly get away, to escape.

“Yeah, I’m saying that. Actually, no,” his gloved hands spread wide. “I’m fucking yelling it because I’ve never met a more stubborn ass in my whole damn life.”

Ian returned his attention to the tile, way too many emotions shooting through his system to have a clue how he felt, other than needing this conversation to be over. He stared at the tile, mesmerized by the amount of soap scum that had built up and wondering whether all the effort would be worth whatever he discovered underneath.

“Fine, Ian,” Mickey said eventually, voice moving away as he returned to his mop and pail. “I know you gotta do stuff in your own time, but you also gotta face facts. Kash and all those other scumbags were taking advantage of you. All that shit that went down at the club was fucked up.”

Ian forced himself to look over his shoulder because he really didn't want to run away anymore, even if he also didn't want to face his mistakes. Mickey's attention was on the pail though. The nylon ends of the mop had gotten caught in the strainer, and he violently jostled the pail, looking ready to commit murder.

Giving the pail a kick, Mickey huffed. “You were a fucking kid, man. Jesus fuck.” Kick, kick. “Talk about fucking at-risk youth.”

The word _prey_ hovered between them along with a bunch of other unspoken words. Unspoken transgressions. Unspoken violations of trust.

Mickey jammed a foot against the side of the pail, so he could give the mop one more angry yank, freeing it, then he kicked the pail a final time before looking up at Ian.

“And I didn’t fucking protect you from that.”

Mickey loved so hard that Ian could feel it across the shower stall, and he wanted to lose himself in it, but he hesitated wondering how he could ever be worthy of that love.


	6. Episode 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 6 is dedicated to Steorie. Her unique, beautiful art has been gracing this fandom for years and I want her to know how much I appreciate that.

**Cell A20**

Ian had just squatted into his 36th burpee when Mickey entered the cell. The scowl on his face told Ian everything he needed to know, so he returned to the squat position, ignoring his cellmate. When he kicked his feet back into plank, Mickey cursed but Ian continued another set, narrowly missing Mickey’s feet that time.

“Oi, Stallone, this cell ain’t big enough for that shit.”

Ian pulled his knees to his chest, breathing deeply. “You aren’t the owner of this cell. I own half of it.” He kicked out once more.

“That a fact?” Mickey said. “You’re on my fucking real estate, man.”

With that bold claim, he stood exactly where Ian’s legs had just been, blocking him from performing the exercise. Ian stood up to his full height, shoulders back. “So what? We’re dividing the cell in half, like a couple of infants?”

Ian was familiar with this concept, having physically divided his bedroom from Lip on more than one occasion, but he didn’t have any duct tape to make it official today.

Mickey shrugged his crossed arms, but refused to move from his position.

“Whatever,” Ian scoffed. “I was done anyway.” While not technically true, it wasn’t worth the fight. Mickey had been in a foul mood for several days, and Ian was beyond frustrated, but this wasn’t the hill he’d die on. Although it might be the hill Mickey died on if he didn’t stop being a dick.

Gripping the side of his bunk, Ian stretched a hand down to his shin, pulling it up and closing his eyes in pleasure as the muscles along the front of his thigh stretched.

_Crack._

_Crack._

_Crack._

Ian inhaled deeply. Ignore it, he told himself. If Mickey wanted to crack his knuckles, he could do it. Giving up on exercise, he hopped up to his bed, where he’d left his journal and the book he was struggling to get through. Flipping open to the page he had marked with a strip of paper, he started to read.

_Crack._

Ian reread the sentence twice but nothing penetrated his brain, so he licked his finger and flipped to the next page, hoping something more interesting awaited him.

_Crack._

Moving his lips along with the words, he tried again. “...seems perfectly obvious that an extra chromosome in the nucleus of every cell of the brain, somehow or other makes the individual more vulnerable to the risk of developing mental behavioral disabilities or abnormalities, possibly one of the causes of violent psychopathy.”

_Crack._

Nope, those words might as well have been in Chinese for all the sense they made to him. All he could concentrate on was the wait for the next crack of Mickey’s joints. He glanced up once, hoping his frustration would make a dent in his boyfriend’s cold anger, but Mickey was leaning against the door jam, staring out the cell window and obviously thinking about something that made him even angrier.

Ian wracked his brain, but he couldn’t think of anything he’d done to piss Mickey off recently. He’d been on the phone with Sandy earlier, so it was probably money related, but Ian didn’t push for more information. It freaked him out whenever Mickey engaged in shady shit because he knew the system would love nothing more than to throw away the key if they could get Mickey on something. Escapees were not popular with the prison system.

Staring back down at the page of his book, he wondered if the author would ever stop rambling and get to the fucking point. Despite finishing half the book, he still had no idea how to identify a psychopath. Other than some shit about extra chromosomes.

All he knew is that he needed out of this fucking prison before he turned into a psychopath himself.

[Watch “That’s all you gotta say?” courtesy of Tue](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=utWO90MDpfg)

**Common Area**

“You gonna finish that double,” Gator asked, impatiently tapping his domino like their millionth game of fucking Chicken Foot would make or break their fucking lives. “Cause you gotta visit the boneyard or play, man.”

“I been playing this shit with you for months, Gator. I know the fucking rules.”

He was toying with his double four when Ian and the peanut gallery entered the common area, deep in conversation. Probably talking about his fucking love life, the dick.

 _Mickey cuts his toenails, Mickey leaves his mayo laying around, Mickey does this, Mickey does that_ , he chanted internally.

“You okay, Rabbit, you look constipated,” Gator said.

In response, Mickey snapped his domino onto the table, knocking a couple of Gator’s dominoes in the process because just then he saw a sheet of paper pass between Ian and his girlfriends.

The goddamn parole hearing letter.

Mickey waved a hand at Gator who was getting impatient, then aligned the edges of the dominoes, while keeping Ian’s pale shoulders in his line of sight. While his domino opponent fussed around with the board and Martinez watched them with little interest, Mickey picked at the same damn hangnail until it started to bleed. He sucked the side of his thumb, tasting blood, and glanced at Ian again. He seemed fucking enthralled by whatever his two gay buddies were telling him.

Reluctantly, he supposed that maybe Ian was doing the right thing, getting advice. Cobb and Dallas were decent, probably asking Ian if he’d had the talk, which of course they hadn’t because what’s the fucking point.

Gator’s smooth forehead wrinkled in question when Mickey stared at him, imagining a world where Mickey poured his fucking heart out to his domino buddy, telling him how much it fucking sucked to think about being in this shithole, while Ian’s out in the world banging anything with two legs. Even fucking women apparently. And Mickey continued to suffocate from the inability to control anything in his life.

He felt bile rise up in his throat thinking about the consequences of being separated from Ian again and wondering if they could do long distance.

“You gonna pl--” Gator started and Mickey reached across the table to lay his tile at the same time as Ian turned to look at him.

While Ian struggled to adjust to the news of his parole by finding someone to talk it over with, Mickey wasn’t sure he could trust himself to keep his shit together if Ian demanded they talk about it. He was a mess of fucking feelings and none of them were welcome, so he’d stick with the usual anger-laced denial. Safer for both of them that way.

[Watch “Otherwise people get hurt” courtesy of Tue](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ei1raiNCk1o)

**Cell A20**

[Watch “Can’t we just wait for each other?” courtesy of Tue](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7pOr63Bk_HA)

**Phone Bank**

“Gonna dip in your fucking Kool-aid, Monkey Mouth,” a voice boomed from behind Ian, where he waited impatiently for his turn at the communal phone bank. He added private phone calls to the list of stuff he missed as the guy behind him threatened to eavesdrop on the other inmate’s personal phone conversation. It turned out to be enough to get the line moving though. After hanging up the phone, the inmate sent the loud mouth a double bird on his way past, and the line moved forward.

Three yellow jumpsuits were still ahead of Ian, so he closed his eyes and tried to remember any helpful advice he received from his visits to places of worship about finding inner peace. Maybe he could find a Buddhist monk around who could help him finally reach enlightenment, since he still hadn’t heard anything from Shim.

Instead he heard Mickey’s voice from earlier proclaiming that waiting for each other was a horror movie. He needed to convince Mickey that he meant it this time and that he had no intention of ever hurting him like that again. He felt like an idiot for not noticing immediately how this parole hearing impacted Mickey. He might not have asked Mickey to roll on the cartel, but he’d never pretend he wasn’t fucking relieved that he did.

The usual medley of guilt, remorse, fear of losing Mickey ricocheted through his mind, interfering with his ability to see things clearly. They were supposed to have the talk so no one got hurt, but the talk hadn’t stopped that from happening. Was he missing something? Or was he just a fucking disaster at communicating?

He was desperate to know what he needed to do to keep them together long term, to make their relationship last. If Cobb and Consuelo could do it, then surely he and Mickey could figure it out. How’d they do it when they were kids..raising a kid? Why was it so hard now?

By this point in his mental gymnastics, he was next up to the phone and doubting whether Lip was any less of a disaster, but he could always count on his brother to listen even if he didn’t always have any advice. Maybe just talking it through would be enough.

Stepping up to the now available phone, he entered Lip’s number.

[Watch “Congrats, you’re an uncle” courtesy of Tue](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_ieFzlggzm0)

Ian heard Mickey’s shoes hit the cement floor. _Thud, thud._ It made his already tensed shoulders tighten with anxiety. He hated this conflicted, helpless feeling. God, _above all_ he hated this feeling. His stomach clenched and he swallowed around the nausea and worry.

Lip had almost lost the mother of his child and was freaking out over being a dad. The possibility of relapse was real, and there was literally no one looking out for him. Fiona was gone, the rest were just too young to get it. Debs had some sort of crisis of her own if her shouts of rage on the phone were any indication. His family was its usual fucking mess.

And Mickey was hurting. That much was fucking obvious to Ian. Seeing his face when he entered the cell and knowing he’d caused that, even unintentionally by getting released earlier than expected. It fucking sucked. He wanted to crawl into the bunk below and bury his face in Mickey’s neck, feel his lips on Ian’s temple, his hand on his neck. He wanted Mickey to help him sort shit out because he was Ian’s...partner.

Shit, he was a fucking idiot sometimes.

**Yard**

Ian spent a fair bit of time running the prison’s quarter mile track. It wasn’t exactly like running at home. Here he was surrounded by a high wall on one side and barbed wire on the other, his canvas uniform constantly slid down his hips and the prison issue slippers hit the concrete track with enough force to jar every joint in his lower body.

But it resembled the freedom he felt whenever he went for a run, so he’d take it. Recently, he’d been able to convince Dallas that he’d extend his life by a decade if he took up running, so he had a partner to keep him company now. It reminded him of all the years he’d run with Fi, the two of them using those moments to bond. Today, he was using the opportunity to have a conversation he didn’t want overheard by anyone, even Mickey.

“Well, dog, sounds like you’ve already made up your mind,” Dallas huffed beside him. “Gotta keep your boy happy. Name o’ the game.”

Ian nodded, wiping sweat from his brow. “Yeah, I want him happy. So I just gotta figure out how to tank this hearing without ending up back in court on a new charge and extending my sentence.”

They jogged in silence for a few minutes, passing several men on a leisurely counterclockwise stroll around the yard as if they weren’t being watched by armed guards in the four towers. Ian’s mind was going in circles too.

“...gonna need to go three knee deep, G.”

Ian frowned at his running mate when he realized he’d been talking while Ian had been fretting. “Say what?”

“Stab ‘im, but don’t do any real damage,” Dallas explained. “Know a guy who needs to send a warning.”

Ian’s step faltered a bit. “Another stabbing?”

“Yeah, man, but this time you’re gonna stick a vic who didn’t ask for it, but Cobb and me are gonna bring the 5-0 claiming the fight was mutual. Then he gets the warning meant for him, but you don’t take the heat.”

“Right,” Ian nodded slowly as they finished their fourth trip around the track. “The board will see fighting with a weapon in my jacket and deny me.”

“That’s right. Win for everyone.”

Ian certainly hoped so.

**Commissary**

Mickey tapped his offender identification number into the touchscreen kiosk and waited for his commissary account balance. He’d gotten Sandy to broker an investment using his stash, but fucking Terry was home again and messing up his carefully laid plans. Plus the damn bathroom cleaning duty cut into his laundry schedule and negatively impacted his income.

When the amount appeared on the screen, he scowled at the computer, adding financial woes to the list of things that pissed him off about this fucking place. But he punched in his weekly order, including the shit Ian had requested. They didn’t need much, mostly smokes and snacks.

Mickey added three extra packs of Kempo cigarettes to his order because he’d come up with a plan to talk about his goddamn relationship. If he looked too hard at the idea, he’d find it filled with holes but shit had hit the fan today between Ian’s patrol and the whole long distance discussion.

It hadn’t really come as a surprise to him that Ian wanted to have the talk because he was being groomed on Prison Gay 101, but he hadn’t been prepared for Ian to throw in his whole hand so quickly.

And ask Mickey to wait. Forever apparently.

The machine kicked out a receipt with his order number and he joined the other yellow clad men in the waiting area while workers pulled their orders. Store Day was probably the only time you’d find a couple dozen convicts milling about happily. Walking out of here with stacks of Ramen and cases of Coke was like Christmas morning in prison.

Finding out that Ian got his date managed to suck what little pleasure he could still get out of visiting the canteen. No amount of noodles would take the edge off his frustration. Did the fucker think Mickey would jump at the chance to wait after all the bullshit that went down last time? He chewed his cuticle in frustration, knowing what the real answer to that was and it made him want to kick his own ass.

A number was called, and Mickey glanced at his receipt even though it wasn’t humanly possible to pull an order that fast, so he let out a long, weary sigh and crossed his arms over his chest, chin tucked, legs spread.

He might be pissed at Ian but he was more pissed at himself for spilling his guts, basically asking Ian to stay in prison with him. Fuck that, he decided, he was more pissed at Ian. Why’d he even have to ask?

A bunch of thoughts tried to get his attention, but Mickey ignored them. Instead, he focused on the fact that he was spending cash they didn’t fucking have on top of the line smokes for a old Nazi gangbanger, who used to help his piece of shit father run drugs for the Sinoala cartel back when Mickey was practically a goddamn toddler.

The thing was that Mickey had a very specific memory of Nana, aside from his nickname allegedly being given to him by the Nigerian drug lord he killed. Mickey didn’t know what to believe but he’d heard his older brothers talking about how Nana accused the dude of stealing his girl and it ended with bloodshed.

But what really stuck out in Mickey’s young mind was that Nana had once gotten into a yelling match with Terry over whether some dude’s sexuality had anything to do with his ability to smuggle E across the border, arguing that what you did with your dick had nothing to do with business. Mickey had listened from the shadows, amazed not only that someone his father rolled with felt this way, but that he’d had the balls to argue with Pops over it. Mostly though, he had felt certain that this information would one day mean something more to him that it had that day.

His number was finally called and he scowled at a couple of dudes who decided to stand right in front of the counter while waiting for their fucking turn. They scattered and he flashed his ID card, handed over his receipt and accepted his mesh bag of goodies, which he carted back to his cell.

Ian was nowhere to be found, so he palmed the three packs of smokes and headed toward the yard. When he’d been there a few days earlier on his time out, he’d seen Nana in the maximum security yard, talking to those two fucking idiots, Moose and Cliff. From his experience, yard time was parceled out to long-term Max inmates at specific times to avoid gang warfare, so he figured Nana would be sunning himself in less than an hour, and if Daniels was manning the gate, that guy could be bought for a song.

So that’s how Mickey found himself carting precious tobacco into the yard to trade for his dignity. He’d be goddamned before he opened his mouth to anyone on this side of the fence, and he’d hesitated to distract Sandy from her current job of turning his measly savings into the fucking retirement nest egg Ian already had planned.

Thing was, he needed to fucking talk about it because Ian owned him, that much he knew. But he also knew that Ian loved his asshole brother and would fawn over his kid like it was the second coming because Ian never met a kid he didn’t want to raise.

“Investing in your 401k?”

Mickey slowed his steps as he closed in on the maximum security gate.

“Fuck you talkin’ about, Enzo? I don’t have time for your shit, man.”

Enzo smiled.

“Spit it the fuck out,” Mickey snapped.

“Marriage, children... _retirement_.” The guy’s smile grew with each word, delighted over sharing the fact he’d eavesdropped on his conversation with Ian, the one where Mickey practically bared his fucking soul.

Mickey glared for a minute, then his own smile spread across his face. He could feel his teeth bare as his lips pulled back. “Yeah, it’s been awhile since me and Ian got on each other. Gonna be busy tonight. Probably be _real_ loud.”

He didn’t stick around to see if Enzo’s unibrow was properly chastised because those three words had hit their mark. The place deep inside him that wanted that life so fucking bad it terrified him.

**Yard**

[Watch “You can’t make someone love you” courtesy of Tue](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mWFeOLYVU30)

**Common Area**

“Yo, Rabbit! Heard something you might be interested in.”

The goatee kid from laundry leaned in to whisper in his ear, but before he could open his yap, Mickey gave him the warning eyebrows to not get any closer.

“That so,” Mickey said, doubting anything this scrub heard on inmate.com would be on Mickey’s radar.

“Walking the track earlier,” he began and a buzz started in Mickey’s skull because Ian had recently returned from his run. He led the kid, and his buddy who hovered behind him, to a corner of the common area so they could continue their chit chat in privacy.

“Spit it out.”

“Saw your...Gay Je...Mr. Gallagher there.” He swallowed once. “Talking about shanking a dude.”

“Fuck,” Mickey spat. “Talking to who?”

“Him,” Goatee pointed straight at Ian’s buddies, Cobb and Dallas. The pair were just finishing up a chat with The Senator, who called the shots for the Latin Kings. Word was he had a beef with Paulie, and Mickey now had the sinking feeling that Ian was about to find himself in the middle of that shit.

“Have a seat,” Mickey said, pointing at the table and the two junior laundry men dutifully sat. While a pair of guards made the rounds, sniffing for contraband, Mickey watched Cobb and Dallas loiter near the stairs, his sixth sense screaming at him to be ready. “You’re gonna earn the right to talk to me any minute now.”

[Watch “I know, I love you too” courtesy of Tue](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-ui-hQVurkQ)

Mickey might have initiated the kiss, but Ian took control of it. His hand skimmed up Mickey’s spine, pulling them tightly together, and once Mickey’s mouth opened against Ian’s, he tipped his head to gain better access. Giving in to the sensations completely, Mickey dropped his hand from Ian’s cheek to his neck then settled on his chest, where the heart beat steadily.

While prison code meant minding your own business, especially if the business was happening inside a cell, it didn’t mean pushing your luck, so they separated a few inches before things got hot and heavy. But they weren’t ready to completely let go of the moment or each other. This kiss was its own kind of good-bye, and Mickey needed to feel Ian’s arms for a little longer.

“I’m only leaving cause of my family,” Ian said quietly, finally making eye contact. “But I know what you sacrificed for me, Mickey, and it scares me.”

“Why?” Mickey kept his eyes on Ian’s.

“I’m scared you’ll resent me.”

“You think I’m gonna resent you cause you needed me?”

Grabbing the hand resting on his chest, Ian squeezed tightly. “No, that you’ll resent me cause I’m not who you think I am.”

Smiling, Mickey closed his fingers around Ian’s. “I know exactly who you are, Gallagher.”

Ian dropped his gaze to their linked hands.“Yeah, okay, Mick.”

Fuck, sometimes, Ian still looked so young, almost like that innocent little shithead he’d chased around the South Side, and it took him back to the moments that forged this whole fucking thing. Back to the beginning. To frantic fucks in abandoned places and hopeful green eyes begging Mickey for just a little bit more.

He cleared his throat because he was getting too fucking emotional. “So this what we’re gonna do now?” he asked, and Ian looked at him.

“What are you talking about?”

“We’re gonna say I love you like a couple old broads?”

Just as he’d planned, Ian smiled, all happy and shit now. He leaned back in toward Mickey, brushing their lips together, those same hopeful green eyes inches away and open wide. “Love you.”

Mickey only stared back, saying nothing until he yelped in pain, batting Ian’s fingers from where they’d tweaked his left nipple. _Fucking hard_.

“Say it,” he demanded, laughing like a fucking hyena. “Or the other nipple gets it, Mickey.”

“Make me," he locked his arm around Ian's neck, preparing to take him down, "bitch.”

_“Jesus Christ, not again!”_

Ian's fingers, which were about to start digging into the ticklish part of Mickey's ribs, froze and Mickey tipped his head toward the vent.

“I thought I told you to eat my ass, Enzo!”

  
[by Steorie](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/steorie)

**Showers**

“You’re getting pretty good at that,” Ian commented lightly, craning to see over Mickey’s shoulder and comment on his skill at cleaning a toilet. “When we live together, I think that should be your job.”

The toilet brush paused its progress around the bowl, but Mickey said nothing, which naturally, Ian took to mean that he’d triggered Mickey by suggesting they move in together.

“Making some assumptions, Gallagher?” The brush picked up where it left off, working under the ledge. “But, yeah, I got a technique happening. Could teach you a thing or two.”

Ian chose to focus on the lighthearted part of that rather than the ominous part. “Looks like it. You could eat off that toilet, it's so clean.”

Mickey straightened his back, forcing Ian to step out of the stall. “You’re messed up, man.”

Ian chuckled. “You could get a job as a janitor when you’re out.” He watched Mickey’s face for a reaction. It would be a long few weeks if he had to walk on eggshells until his hearing on the 10th. They’d sort of made up, after the heartfelt words and the sweetest kiss they’ve ever shared, but he knew that it didn't replace the honest to god talking they had yet to do.

“Well, now, I’m not gonna be able to sleep for excitement over my future.” Mickey nudged Ian out of the way, so he could enter the next stall. “You stand around way too fucking much.”

“Why don’t you come over here,” Ian suggested as he moved toward the wall of urinals, waggling his eyebrows. “I’ll show you my technique.”

“Dork.”

Ian laughed again, something he couldn’t seem to stop himself from doing now that a chunk of the huge weight had lifted. “You know, I could really show you my technique though, got this urinal thing down to a science.”

“Why would I ever need to know that shit? Certainly _not_ for my illustrious career as a goddamn janitor.” His voice carried over the metal walls of the stall he’d entered.

“I was a janitor for a bit.”

“Yeah? When was that?” Mickey asked over the flushing of the toilet.

“Not long after you, um, went away,” he mumbled. Wanting to keep their conversation fun, he scanned his mind for an alternative topic. “Hey, did you ever end up stabbing that fat fucking Mick who stole your Jell-o?”

Ian was certain he heard a chuckle. “Nah, I got in a fight with another dude and lost my Jell-o privileges.”

“No shit, really?” Ian hated the thought of that because he’d spent way too much time back then imagining Mickey happily eating his multi-colored desserts.

“So I had to steal the fat Mick’s Jell-o.”

And Ian returned to grinning down at the urinal, thinking about that life changing visit to JTDC, the moment that he’d crossed a line where Mickey was concerned. He’d barely turned 15 at the time, but he’d been sure this was the guy he would spend his life with because never in his pretty vivid imaginings had he even considered someone like Mickey wanting to be with Ian.

“Fuck, you were a scrawny little shit back then in your plaid get-up,” Mickey interupted his reminscences. “That fucking haircut belonged on a grade schooler.”

Ian leaned a hip against the wall, lost in thought. “Yeah, I had that haircut in grade school. Fuck, Mick, I had it when you threatened to stab me with your pencil.”

“When’d I do that?” he asked, head poking out of the stall. “Doesn’t sound like me.”

They smiled at each other. “We were in detention together, and I needed a pencil. You hadn’t learned to share yet.”

Mickey’s middle finger appeared through the stall door. “Was your stupid ass in detention for fighting as usual?”

“Probably.”

“Got some anger issues, Gallagher. Using your fists to solve shit.”

“Ha! Pot and kettle, Mick.”

They fell silent for a bit, then Mickey’s voice filled the space. “You want me to move into your place, huh?”

Ian’s heart actually thudded against his ribcage. “Yes.”

“A’ight.”

A’ight.

  
[by Steorie](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/steorie)

**Cell A20**

[Watch “FaceTime your brother, see the baby” courtesy of Tue](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qYkAVOPgmuc)

As Ian asked about Tami and her shitshow labor, Mickey listened to the timbre of Ian’s voice and the pure joy in it, as obvious to Mickey as the unibrow on Enzo’s forehead. Ian needed out of here, and Mickey accepted that even though he’d be a bitch to live with. God save whoever ended up taking Ian’s place in this cell, but he wasn’t going to fight Ian leaving anymore.

Each time Ian spoke to the baby, Mickey thought about their brief ghetto marriage when they’d believed everything was possible because they wanted it bad enough. Looking back, he couldn’t believe how naive he really was to think that a mentally ill kid who was selling his body and an angry thug who ran a brothel could create a fucking white picket fence life. But he had thought that.

He’d thought he could force life to do his bidding because he’d let go of his fear of people finding out he was gay and in fucking love with a guy. He’d fought the devil, and he and Ian had fucking won.

For a single night they had lain in Mickey’s bed, high on being together, so alive despite their bloody faces and bruised knuckles. Mickey couldn’t even fathom what the future held for them because he’d been sure it was wide fucking open. Then he’d discovered a devil harder to destroy than his father. Mental fucking illness.

But they’d made it through Ian’s depression, and once again, Mickey had thought they had a second chance at that picket fence. One that involved a kid and a whore this time, and for a brief moment, they might have even been a messed-up, South Side family.

Except white picket fences were bullshit because the whole damn thing was built on wishful thinking and desperation.

The sound of Ian’s voice from the bunk above changed then, getting all serious and pulling Mickey’s attention away from the past and back to the conversation between the Gallagher brothers. “It’s late, Lip. Should Fred be at the Alibi...should you?”

“I’m good. Nothing to worry about. Other than Frank acting like the house is a fraternity.”

Mickey zoned out for the rest of that story, until CO Daniels reappeared in the doorway. “Times up,” he announced, and Mickey figured if he and Ian’s relationship had a catchphrase that would it.

_Times fucking up._

“Byyyeeeee, Fred,” Ian cooed like the dork he’d always be. “Talk soon.”

“You bet, brother. And thank Mick for setting this up.”

As soon as the cell door closed behind Daniels signally their hour of semi-privacy, Ian crawled into Mickey’s bunk and over his body, tucking his long ass frame against the wall. Mickey had his hands under his head, so Ian rested his cheek on the exposed bicep and his palm on Mickey’s chest directly over the tattoo, like usual.

“Eight pounds, eight ounces,” he murmured as if the kid had performed a miracle. “He looks so fucking healthy, Mickey.”

“That’s good.”

Ian hummed a moment. “Why’re you so nice to me?”

Mickey tipped his chin to look at Ian in disbelief, but he was studying the circular pattern his fingers were making on Mickey’s chest.

“Love ya.”

Ian smiled a little, like he’d been setting Mickey up for that and was satisfied with the response, the little shit. But his eyebrows shot up when Ian’s warm hand stopped making patterns and instead made a trip under Mickey’s boxers, cupping his junk.

When Ian’s body started sliding down his, clearly intent on adding his mouth, Mickey lowered an arm to stop the progress. His hand clamped around Ian’s forearm.

“Nah.”

Ian pulled back in surprise. “You don’t want me to blow you?”

“No.”

“No?” He sounded confused but not pissed. “You _don't_ want me to blow you?”

“Well yeah, I want you to blow me.”

“So you _do_ want me to,” he confirmed and headed back in that direction.

“No, stop.”

“I’m confused, Mick.”

“Fuck, I am too.”

“Are you mad at me?”

“What?” Mickey full-on frowned at that. “Why would I be mad at you?”

“Any number of reasons, I suppose.” His head returned to Mickey’s bicep and his hand lay inactive on his chest now.

“I’m not mad, but I…” He didn’t know how to word his thoughts, so he went with his usual head-on method. “You don’t gotta blow me to say thank you.”

“I wanna blow you to say thank you though.”

“Cause you think you have to,” he swallowed. “You're not just a warm mouth, okay?”

“Whatever,” he said, and Mickey could hear the attempt to change the course of this conversation to a direction that Ian felt more comfortable with, but he wasn’t taking the bait.

“Well, I don’t want you to, so you gotta find a different way to thank me.”

“Jerk you off?”

Mickey gave him the side eye but only shook his head in response.

“Well, what then? This isn’t fair. You did something nice for me, now I wanna do something nice for you.” He jabbed his index finger into Mickey’s chest like an exclamation mark to his statement. “But it can’t be sexual?”

Ian’s head bobbed when Mickey shrugged his shoulder, and he could feel the confusion and anxiety like waves coming off the guy.

“How about you just be here with me?” Mickey suggested.

They made eye contact, and Ian searched for mockery, but he wasn’t going to find any because Mickey realized he actually wanted just that. He had no doubt he’d get plenty of blow jobs from Ian before he left, but these quiet moments of them just being together were what he’d miss the most.

“Okay,” Ian agreed, tentative at first but then he nodded. “Yeah, okay.”

Ian’s hand wrapped around Mickey’s ribcage, and he adjusted his head a little so he rested more on Mickey’s chest than his arm. To complete the set, he lifted his boney knee to Mickey’s thigh then let out an almost silent sigh, making Mickey think he’d been correct. That some part of Ian’s brain thought he was supposed to offer up sex.

“Fred is cute as hell, Mick. He had on this little cap to keep his head warm, but it looked like he could hold his head up on his own already.”

“You gotta work on that baby voice, Ian. Shit is gonna scare the kid away,” he teased and Ian jostled his knee getting dangerously close to the goods.

“I didn’t stop when you used to pull the pillow over your head if we were watching Ye--” he stopped dead.

Mickey could feel Ian’s body freeze anticipating an angry outburst, but Mickey didn’t feel like dredging up negative memories. Svet had taken his claim to Yev along with the divorce papers, and even though he’d always wonder, the likelihood of that kid being his were odds no bookie would ever take. But that was such a huge part of his and Ian’s shared history that it couldn’t continue to be a land mine they had to avoid.

“You’re fucking lucky I didn’t cover _your_ head with my pillow. That kid was gonna think Ian Gallagher spoke a foreign fucking language.”

Ian laughed and relaxed against him. “So basically, he’d be bilingual.”

“Yeah, sure, he’d get far talking baby talk.”

They both laughed at that image. “Well, I think I saw Fred smile, so I’m not gonna stop.”

“Don’t say I didn’t warn ya.”

“Fair enough,” he agreed, thumb tracing the shape of Mickey’s lower lip. “And Mick…”

“Yes, Ian.”

“Thank you.”

Maybe, Mickey thought, you can’t make someone love you, but maybe you didn’t have to.

  
[by Steorie](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/steorie)


	7. Episode 3 Recap

**Here’s what you missed on the last episode of Shameless…**

**Cell A20**

Ian scraped the cheap disposable razor along the curve of his throat then dunked it in the warm water pooled in the sink. Bending in closer to the mirror, he noticed a patch of stubble along his upper lip and swiped it with the dull blade. After wiping the remaining shaving cream from his face, he set the razor on the ledge waiting to return it to the CO on his round.

Now that he’d completed his morning routine, paying extra attention to each step, he felt respectable enough for his parole hearing. Even if he got denied today, he eventually wanted to get out, so he wasn’t going to give them any extra ammunition. But his mind stayed focused on the fact that Mickey still hadn’t returned from wherever he’d gone the moment their cell door was unlocked for morning count. All he’d said when Ian asked was “out”.

A movement at the door got his attention, but it was only Raymond with the plastic bin of razors. Ian tossed his in with the rest and returned to the cell to sit on Mickey’s bunk until either someone came to escort him to the Hearing Office or Mickey showed up.

As the moments ticked by, Ian started to doubt his decision. Maybe he should have tanked his chances of being released early, maybe Mickey was upset and didn’t want Ian to know, maybe Ian wasn’t ready to be alone on the outside. Maybe, maybe, maybe.

_Fuck._

Why was the person he _wanted_ to talk to about the shit in his life so hard to talk to sometimes? He fucking trusted Mickey to do what was best for them, and he needed him to confirm, yet again, that leaving was actually what was best because it didn’t really feel like it.

When he’d been filling out the parole application letter a couple weeks ago, he had gotten stuck in a loop of negative self-judgment, while attempting to explain the circumstances that had led to his incarceration. As usual, Mickey could sense that Ian was close to losing his shit even from his position in the bunk below.

“Just state the facts, Ian, not the shit you believe about yourself,” he had offered. “You blew up a van because you thought it’d stop a gay kid from being fucked over by his parents. You can leave out the shit about you being a horrible human unfit to walk the earth.”

Ian pulled his knees toward his chest, bringing the paper closer as Mickey continued.

“They already know that part cause you’re in fucking prison. Look around, we aren’t dealing with the cream of the fucking crop.”

Somehow that made Ian feel a little better, which might have worried him if he wasn’t already overwhelmed by all the questions on the application. Turns out all he’d have to do to tank his parole is not complete this goddamn form. He tapped the paper with his pen.

“Okay, but the next question is why I did it. Says, what motivated you to commit the felony?” he read.

“Easy. It took longer than normal to find the correct medication dosage and combination for your bipolar disorder,” Mickey offered like he was reading from a manual, and Ian wondered why Mickey wasn’t filling in this shit for him. “They probably read that half a dozen times a day. Mental illness is more common here than herpes.”

Ian shuddered. “I guess so.”

Why had he believed that all that Gay Jesus stuff was right, though? He could recall _what_ he did, just not _why_ he’d actually done it. “I’m sure it wasn’t psychosis, Mickey. I wasn’t hallucinating when I thought God spoke to me.”

After a few moments of silence, Mickey asked in a clear voice. “You think it was God’s voice speaking to you, in fuckin’ English, about spreading the gospel of gay love?”

“Not when you put it that way,” Ian retorted in frustration.

“Okay,” Mickey said simply. “Whose voice was it?”

Ian thunked the back of his head against the cement wall, unable to answer. Mickey’s head appeared beside him. “Let’s cut the shit, okay?”

They stared at each other, and Ian knew that whatever Mickey was about to say he’d have to listen to and just deal with. He nodded, bracing himself.

“When you took the kid on that road trip, the cops told me you thought they were demons sent by some dude in the fucking _Bible_. Is that true?”

Hating even the whiff of those memories, Ian swallowed dryly, but also grasped the pen tightly before breaking eye contact with Mickey to look at the paper.

“Auditory hallucinations based on insufficient medication prescribed for bipolar,” he read out loud as his pen moved across the paper. He felt Mickey’s hand on his thigh, then he returned to his bunk, probably to give Ian space to digest.

“Still think there’s something to the _Bible_ , though,” he muttered, not quite ready to admit full defeat.

“Well, you’re not alone in that, so either you’re all crazy or you’re on to something,” he said lightly. “What else is on that form?”

Glad to move past those questions, he read. “Do you have any previous felonies? You think they’ll find out about the military helicopter?”

“You weren’t charged, plus you were a fucking kid.”

Ian stated that he did not have any previous offenses, even though he suspected that a good chunk of his and his siblings’ lives fell under that category. “Now they wanna know what I’ve learned from this experience?”

“That you can’t do shit without someone posting it on fucking YouTube, so before you commit your felony, make sure you bust everyone’s iPhone.”

Ian smiled down at the paper, reminded for the hundredth time that in Mickey’s world you survived, you didn’t beat yourself up for what you had to do. Plus they’d talked about celebrating successes in group therapy, and he recalled that guy announcing he’d made a year straight taking his meds. Ian jotted that down and some of the behavioral therapy techniques he’d learned. That just left the life plans section, which threatened to bring on a new spiral of negative thoughts.

Until he remembered Mickey. He was Ian’s life plan, but he was pretty sure putting down your escapee convict boyfriend’s name wasn’t what the board would call progress. But they didn’t know Mickey so fuck them.

“They wanna know my life plans.”

“Tell ‘em about your dream of perfecting urinal cleaning,” Mickey snickered.

“Better not, they might keep me in here,” he warned.

“Tell ‘em you wanna get back into the EMT game. You know Illinois doesn’t disqualify you just cause you got a jacket. ‘Sides your felony is child’s play compared to shit like feeding your gangbanger enemy to your pit bull.”

“Guess,” Ian muttered, unable to write that suggestion down because it was a pipe dream. “With the bipolar that’s two strikes, Mick, no one’s gonna hire me.”

“Maybe, maybe not, but that shit will look good on the application.”

He wrote it down, then read the final question: what strategies will you use to deal with future challenges?

“I’m going to write ‘Mickey Milkovich’ under the strategy I’ll use to deal with future challenges.”

“Solid, that name’ll get you places, all right.”

Yeah, Ian thought, it would…

He returned to the present and the fact he was about to face the Parole Board when Mickey appeared in the doorway of their cell, a stack of folded prison wear in his arms. They stared at each other for a full minute, before Mickey spoke. “Smooth shave, Gallagher, looking good.”

Ian stood up then ran a palm over his stubble-free jaw, not sure how long it had been since he’d paid this much attention to being clean shaven and wondering what Mickey would think if he let his facial hair grow out.

“You ready?” Mickey asked, coming into the cell.

“Where were you?”

“Interviewing for a new prison boyfriend,” he smirked, tossing the stack of clothing at Ian, who caught it all before it fell to the cement floor. “Happy Parole Hearing Day, Ian.”

He looked down at the soft yellow and white material, then brought it up to his nose to sniff. It smelled fresh and reminded him of summer time. “Wow.”

Mickey nudged his nose once. “Ran it through with some vinegar to freshen and soften them. Added some of that flowery fabric softener too.”

Ian tucked the clothes against his chest, not quite believing he could be this fortunate. “You got me clean clothes for the hearing?”

“Got my reputation to protect, man,” he said, eyes on Ian. “Word gets out my prison bitch went to his parole hearing dressed like a homeless dude and my laundry business dries up.”

“Right,” Ian said, pulling his off-white tank over his head and replacing it with a pristine new one. “You gonna let me blow you this time?”

“Hell ya. Let you blow me every night until you leave. Gonna fucking miss that mouth.”

“Even when it’s nagging you?”

A tiny grin appeared on Mickey’s lips. Ian was going to miss that mouth too.

“Even then, Gallagher.”

Ian nodded, satisfied that they were okay, and stepped out of his jumpsuit. “What’s this bullshit about a new prison boyfriend?”

“Been looking through some resumes.”

Ian glanced at his face, knowing he had to be kidding but wanting to see the confirmation in his eyes.

“Get a lot of applicants?”

He shrugged. “It’s a highly skilled position. Not just any fuck-up is gonna fit the bill. I’m only interested in a very specific fuck-up.”

Straightening his collar, Ian kept his eyes on Mickey. “Anyone in mind?”

“I’ll let you know,” he concluded. “First, I wanna feel that fucking jaw before they drag your ass outta here.”

Ian stepped forward, tipping his chin to give Mickey easy access. His fingertips were warm and always so surprisingly soft, and Ian tried not to think about going without them for the next few years.

Three hours later, Ian made the trip back up the metal staircase toward A-tier, eyes scanning the common area for Mickey. He stepped out of their cell just as Ian turned toward it, and they both slowed their steps. Paulie chose that moment to pause in the space between them, giving Ian a second to gather his thoughts.

Then the inmate's bald head moved on and those blue eyes were on him again, searching for the answer. Ian nodded twice and Mickey’s lips tipped up slightly.

“What’d they say?” he asked when they were close enough to hear over the clang of feet on the tier around them.

“That my jacket will be in records until they confirm I’ve got a home to move back to and that my PO has a job ready for me. I gotta get my meds in order and get a bunch of STI tests. Then I guess I leave.”

“The usual shit,” Mickey concluded, turning toward their cell.

“Yeah, they basically reviewed the parole application and figured I was only a threat if I went off my meds.” He smiled trying to lighten the mood a bit. “My file was pretty fucking full though, Mick. They had letters and emails from hundreds of people who were part of the movement.”

“That a good thing or bad?”

“Both, I think.” He’d been surprised to see all the print-outs from Gay Jesus supporters because he’d had no contact with anyone he knew since he’d arrived. “They kept referring to them. People said some decent things, but the board seemed more interested in whether I was gonna continue my association with them.”

“Are you?” Mickey asked, scratching his forehead and alerting Ian to the fact that something bubbled beneath the surface. Ian looked at him squarely.

“No.”

“What about when they find out you were released and come a knockin’?”

“No.”

“Why not?” Mickey crossed his arms, and the movement revealed the swoop of the “I” in Ian’s name.

“I’ve done my time.” Ian crossed his arms too.

“What if Shim tells you to flush your meds and join a cult in Texas?”

“Then I’ll know it wasn’t Shim talking.”

“A’ight.” Mickey dropped his arms to his sides. “We’ll let Shim take it from here then. Sounds like they got my back.”


	8. Episode 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This episode is a little longer because neither Mickey nor Ian were in it, so I'm going to take a break from posting on Monday. I'll see you on Tuesday morning.

**Pharmacy**

Every morning before breakfast, a nurse showed up at the pharmacy window to distribute medication to almost half the inmates in their unit. Most days, Mickey made the trek with Ian then they’d head over for breakfast. Since Ian was getting released at the end of the week, today they needed to make sure he had his meds set up and that the prison system didn’t fuck up the transition.

They’d celebrated his one year med anniversary not that long ago, and Mickey was looking forward to many more of those milestones. They hadn’t come this far in Ian’s maintenance therapy to be back at square one because some drone didn’t cross a fucking T in Ian’s records.

As Ian neared the front of the line, Mickey went to sit in a folding chair since they wouldn’t serve Ian with him hovering around, which seemed ridiculous since he, and everyone else in the hall, could hear everything that went down.

“Location,” the female voice demanded through the tiny hole in the window that protected her from the inmates.

“Eleven house East, A tier, cell 20,” Ian responded automatically, like he did every morning and every evening. Before she could ask, he added, “Gallagher, Ian.” Then slid his ID card through the dispensary window. A moment later, a blister pack of pills appeared.

She recited all the ABC’s for confirmation. Duloxetine, Lamictal, Aripiprazole, Omega 3s, B1, 6, 12. Mickey’d heard so many names over the year that he’d had to work hard at keeping them straight and the dosage that went along with them. Today though, he was more interested in hearing confirmation about the transition plan.

Ian palmed the blister pack, then bent low to better talk to the faceless woman. “I’m getting released on Friday. Paperwork should have arrived on your end,” he explained.

“Lemme check,” she said. Ian smiled and looked around the long hall where they were all waiting. Mickey followed his gaze then he shot up, straight out of the metal chair and sent it clambering backwards into the cement wall. The CO, whose job it was to check under the tongue of each inmate ensuring they swallowed their pills, gave Mickey a warning look, but Mickey’s attention locked on the newest arrival.

Fucking Roy, the snake.

Mickey adjusted his neck, feeling the familiar crack as his body went into fight mode. That motherfucker had just gotten wind that Ian was being released in a few days, and Mickey needed to lay down the law right fucking now.

But the CO next to Ian rested his hand on the stun gun attached to his belt as a warning to Mickey, so he took it down a notch. Nothing was gonna go down right this minute, but he needed to think, to make a plan.

“Gallagher?” the nurse said, getting Ian’s attention, since he seemed to sense Mickey’s agitation. “We’ll arrange 3 days of medication for you to take home with you on your last day, and we’ll send your prescription to the pharmacy on file...Walgreens on Halsted?”

“That’s correct.”

“We recommend finding a clinic immediately because the prison will only authorize a 30 day prescription. Your primary care doctor will need to take it from there.”

“Thanks,” Ian said. After accepting the tiny paper cup of water, he stopped in front of the CO, rolling his tongue in an almost lewd gesture to prove he wasn’t saving his pills to sell later. Then he joined Mickey where he was waiting.

“What’s up, Mick?” he whispered, glancing quickly at Roy who had strolled up to the dispensary window.

“That fucker knows you’re getting out now, Ian, and if he gets a chance to fuck with your release, he’s gonna take it,” Mickey hissed. “Watch your fucking back, man.”

“Okay, yeah.”

Mickey frowned, but Ian started walking down the hallway, away from Roy, and he was forced to let it go for now. “You all set?”

“Yeah, everything should be fine.”

“How you gonna pay for them?” Mickey asked. “ _Oi_. Make fucking sure you get a debit card with the balance from your commissary account on the way out. They won’t offer, so you gotta ask.”

“Yeah, Mickey, okay.”

Ian had that concerned look, so Mickey figured his low key anxiety wasn’t as low key as he thought. “That fucking snake gets under my skin.”

Ian slowed his steps to look at him. “I thought that was my job.”

“Dick.”

Ian smiled and led the way through the dining hall entrance. “So I’ll leave with my meds, my money, my release papers. Oh and my phone. I’ll set up a plan first thing, so we can talk.”

“Sounds good. I got some cash that Sandy is going to transfer to you once you’re home, so you can buy a month’s worth of pills.”

“Mickey, you need--”

“I _need_ you to be on your meds, that’s the only fucking thing I need, okay?”

Ian released a sigh, but nodded. “Okay, I’ll let you know how it goes.”

“Damn right you will,” he added, passing Ian a tray. They were at the tail end of breakfast so there wasn’t much of a line-up or much of a selection. “What else you got set up to keep you healthy?”

“Talk to you everyday. Tell my PO my plan. Try to listen if my siblings see any changes in me.”

Mickey wanted to toss his tray down in protest. Fucking scrambled eggs again. “And eat properly. That’s supposed to help.”

They looked at the scoop of watery eggs slopped onto his tray. “I’m eating an entire box of Pop Tarts the minute I walk through the door,” Ian declared

Mickey smiled. “Me fucking too, man. Breakfast of champions.”

They loaded up despite their lukewarm interest in the buffet options, then found a seat at an empty table.

“I’ll exercise regularly,” Ian continued, and Mickey pointed his fork at him.

“If you start exercising like a psycho, that’s your first fucking warning sign.” Mickey shoveled in eggs because it was the only way to get through the experience. “What about booze?”

“I can have one beer without it impacting me.”

“Yeah?” Mickey wasn’t convinced but knew he wasn’t going to be around to enforce anything. “Seem to recall someone getting shitfaced off a one goddamn beer. Wanting to go on a fucking date.”

Ian’s knife paused where it was spreading peanut butter on his toast, but he didn’t look up. Not ready to face those kinds of demons yet apparently.

“Make it a light beer then,” Mickey decided.

Ian gave him a lopsided grin, probably assuming that Mickey would sooner die than drink a light beer.

**Library**

Ian dropped his stack of library books onto the trolley. He’d cleaned out the cell, but he still had three days here before he was released and figured he’d be able to get through one more book in that time.

“Anything new, Marv?” He asked the middle aged volunteer sitting behind the desk.

“Got a bunch of graphic novels donated.” He pointed toward the back wall. “Next to the SAT prep section.”

Ian grinned. “Makes sense.”

“Empty shelf.” He shrugged. “Not like Dewey Decimal is gonna take our library cards away for going rogue.”

Laughing, Ian made his way to the back wall, thinking about the phone call he’d just had with Lip. He’d tried to tell his brother that he was struggling with the idea of leaving Mickey behind, but Fred had been squawking in the background so he gave up on having a conversation. Instead he asked if anyone was free to pick him up midmorning on Friday. Lip had offered to come himself, which surprised Ian since it sounded like Lip had his hands full. But he’d said he missed Ian, and Ian had felt a little better.

His brother was forgotten when he spotted the three shelves of graphic novels. He ran his finger along the spines until it landed on _The Watchmen_. That sounded cool, so he pulled it free, flipping through it in interest. Distractedly, he wandered between two shelves of books toward the check-out, enjoying the quiet of his final library visit, until he felt someone’s eyes on him.

Roy stood at the end of the aisle, pretending to read the spines of the books in front of him, but Ian knew he wasn’t here to take out any books. His fingers clenched as the urge to give this asshole a beating swept over him. No way was he going to get in a fight with this loser though, at least not while in prison three days before his parole. That’s exactly what the guy wanted.

But he couldn’t resist the urge to release a little aggression, so he made sure his shoulder brushed Roy’s back as he passed by. It might be considered a minor thing on the outside, but early on, he’d learned the three basic prison rules: don’t pecker check, don’t reach across the dining room table for salt and don’t ever touch another inmate.

Ian glanced over his shoulder when he reached the check-out desk, to let Roy know he wasn’t fucking scared of his bullshit, but he wasn’t in the aisle anymore. Dropping the book onto the desk, he looked at Marv. “Not done yet.”

“Have at ‘er, Ian.”

He made his way back to the stacks, most of which were shoulder height, so inmates couldn’t hide among them doing shit they weren’t supposed to, but there were two taller ones nearer to the back where the graphic novels were located. Ian headed in that direction again, walking slowly, eyes scanning between the books. Maybe he would end up fucking up his parole after all because he really, really wanted to make sure the guy minded his own business.

Pulling an oversized atlas of the world from the shelf, he looked through the hole created between the books and yelped in surprise when blue eyes glared at him.

“Mickey? What the fuck?” He leaned in until his forehead nearly touched the edge of the wooden shelf.

“I could ask you the same fucking thing, you idiot,” he snapped, staring hard at Ian. “You came here alone?”

“Marv is here.”

“Oh well in that case, what was I worried about?” he said, not hiding the sarcasm. “I saw that motherfucker, Roy, walking out when I was walking in.”

“I saw him too.”

“ _Mm hm_ ,” he hummed. “He’s a convict, Ian, not just a fucking inmate. There’s a big difference. Prison is his life, not a temporary fucking holiday from freedom. He’s not the dude you wanna mess around with.”

“What’s gonna happen when I leave?” Ian demanded.

“He’ll fuck off to the hole he crawled outta because he knows not to come for me.”

They engaged in some intense warfare using only their eyes until Ian surrendered, knowing that in this area Mickey definitely knew best.

“How’d you know I was here?” he asked.

“The cell looks fucking barren with all your books gone.”

That hurt to hear, and Ian had to rein in his guilt for the thousandth time this week.

“I only had six books out, Mickey.”

“Yeah, well, I could fucking tell they were missing,” he continued to bark each response at Ian. “What am I gonna stack my mayo packets on now?”

Ian smiled and felt that familiar twinge of love. “Why are we talking through these books?”

“Cause if I come around, I might clobber you to death with that fucking map book you’re holding,” he barked. “Starting with whatever country speaks fucking Chinese because you don’t understand English.”

“I think that’s China, Mick,” Ian snickered.

“Yeah, you think you’re a funny guy?”

Ian tipped his head to see Mickey’s face better, then he returned the book to the slot, and walked around the side of the book shelf. “I’m okay. Nothing happened.”

“You came here alone. That ain’t nothing, man.”

Ian released a breath, so the frustration didn’t take hold. He understood this kind of worry. It was a constant companion because it seemed illogical that the cartel hadn’t retaliated in some way over what Mickey had done. He claimed it was because of the battle over the city of Juárez that had gone down between the Sinaloa cartel and the Calderón cartel in the last few months. They had more important people to kill than Mickey apparently.

“Sorry.”

Immediately, Mickey softened. “Just fucking worry.”

“I know,” Ian touched his fingertips to the spot where his name was tattooed on Mickey’s chest. “I’m gonna miss this place.”

“Prison?” Mickey looked even more worried.

“No, the library.”

“Pretty sure there are libraries on the outside, Shakespeare,” he said. “But don’t quote me on that. I bet Marv is gonna miss you too since you’re the only fucker who spends his spare time here.”

“The books help somehow.”

“Then get a fucking library card immediately, okay?”

Ian could watch Mickey’s face all day long, the way every thought and emotion needed to escape through his features.

“I can continue to read to you when we talk every night,” Ian suggested.

“Get something fucking interesting then.”

Ian looked thoughtful then pointed a finger at Mickey. “Frank suggested _Ulysses_.”

“No idea what the fuck that is, but if Frank’s read it, then I’m gonna go ahead and say no.”

Laughing, Ian waved Mickey over to the shelves of graphic novels. “Let’s pick you out some.” When Mickey frowned and tried to drag his feet, Ian added, “To make you a new night stand for your mayo.”

But maybe, Ian thought, they’d give Mickey something to do when he was feeling alone.

**Common Area**

Ian leaned heavily on the guardrail just outside their cell, watching from ten feet above as Mickey played dominoes with Gator and Martinez. The sight reminded him that prison had turned out to not be the worst thing to happen to him. In fact, he might have done a little growing while here. Mickey flipped Gator off and Ian felt that familiar wave of affection.

Before he could get carried away, he continued his scan of the common area. Two tables over, Cobbs and Dall threw their cards on the table and Jigsy pulled the pile of Ramen toward his chest, victoriously. Ian scrubbed a hand over his hair, amazed that he’d gotten one of the best haircuts of his life while in prison by a dude whose father was a barber.

Nearby, Chester was regaling some new fish with stories from the old days, and the kid seemed to be eating it up, giving the old inmate his full attention. Paulie was locked in a quiet hissing match with The Senator. Thinking that he’d been ten seconds from stabbing some guy he barely knew wasn’t Ian’s favorite jail house memory.

And sitting at a corner table with a newspaper spread in front of him and a plastic mug of coffee was Mickey’s former flame, the guy he’d met in Juárez. Ian studied him even though he’d pretty much memorized his features after all the staring he’d done the last few months. The sides of his light brown hair were freshly shaved, and Ian wondered if that was Jigsy’s handiwork since Mickey had said he did a mean fade. The curls on top of his head fell in a wayward mess that Ian begrudgingly acknowledged was charming.

But most of all it was his face that got under Ian’s skin. The guy looked fucking likable, someone Ian would be drawn to under other circumstances. He smiled a lot, carried himself in a relaxed way but had a slight loner vibe.

“Gallagher,” CO Raymond called to him from the end of the tier. “Letter.”

Turning partially away from the common area, he accepted the envelope and smiled when he saw it was from Liam.

“Thanks. My brother.” He waved the envelope. “Said he had to write a letter to someone he admired for a class assignment.”

“Fascinating,” Raymond replied, and Mickey stood up from the table, catching Ian’s attention. “Also processing needs you to fill out this A-32 form.”

Mickey walked toward the exit, which led out to the yard, and Ian decided he’d join him.

“You listening?” Raymond snapped, holding out a clipboard with several pieces of paper and a pen attached.

“Yeah.”

Mickey stopped near the exit at his ex-lover’s table, leaning in to say something and Ian frowned.

“It’s your outtake contract agreeing to behave once we release you.”

Mickey nodded once then continued toward the exit.

“Jesus, I’ll fill out the form myself if it means I don’t have to look at the two of you anymore.”

Ian finally turned to Raymond. “Um, I gotta do something first.”

“No, Gallagher, you do not,” Raymond sighed, shoving the clipboard into his hands. “I’m not sure where you got the idea this is summer camp, but this is not goddamn summer camp. Complete it now or you’ll spend your last couple days in solitary.”

Shit. “Yes, sir.”

“Well,” he waved at the form. “I’m not getting any younger.”

Mickey’s buddy got up from the table, dropped his cup in the bin outside the kitchen and headed toward the yard. And Ian stared down at the damn form.

_Yard_

Tapping the smoke three times against the metal picnic bench, Mickey slipped it between his lips as he turned away from the late summer breeze to light a match. The smoke filled his lungs, and he sighed. His days were numbered, not just the days with Ian but also the days when he could smoke on prison grounds.

Currently, one designated smoking area remained in the east corner of the rec yard, and he occupied it more and more recently. If he was going to wake up at the start of the new month in a smoke-free penitentiary, he needed to take advantage of what he had now. No fucking way was he burning through his cash paying for black market smokes that cost as much as a used car.

He wasn’t alone in his corner of the yard, however. Several other men milled about, flicking ash indiscriminately and lighting one smoke from the butt of another. While he scanned the yard watching for that asshat Roy to show, another dude joined him, nodding in greeting.

“Hey,” the guy said, as the wind blew his light brown curls around his forehead. Tapping a cigarette from his pack, he leaned forward slightly to signal he needed a light. Mickey passed over the book of matches and glanced at the “South Side Forever” tattoo on the other man’s arm.

“Thanks for helping me, Ty.”

Joining Mickey on the picnic table, he asked, “Is this snake fellow here yet?”

Mickey exhaled smoke from the side of his mouth, glancing at Ty. He followed the line of his facial features, wondering not for the first time how that baby face managed to survive in their world. But the guy was fucking vicious when he needed to be, which was why Mickey’d called on him today. “Nope, just enjoying some fresh air while I wait.”

“Enjoy it while it lasts.”

They nodded in agreement over their shared appreciation for a good stick of tobacco. Some of the old comradery settled between them as they puffed, and Mickey was grateful that he’d managed to find someone he could trust so soon after arriving in Juárez. It helped that they were both from Chicago and living in Mexico for less than legal reasons, but mostly the guy had given off trustworthy vibes from day one.

Mickey sat up, eyes narrowing as Roy walked across the yard, heading toward the set of heavy bags where his buddies were showing off their less than impressive boxing skills.

“ _Pendejo_ ,” Ty said as they watched Roy do some elaborate fist bump with his buddies.

Mickey agreed with that assessment wholeheartedly. “ _Cabrón_.” They shared a laugh over memories of Mickey practicing Spanish insults until he got them down perfectly.

“I see you haven’t forgotten all the Spanish I taught you,” Ty commented, brown eyes staring straight ahead as he continued to chuckle. “Remind me, how many anuses do you have again?”

Mickey exhaled, watching the ash he flicked from his smoke onto the cracked concrete beneath his feet. When he looked up Ty was smiling, and Mickey got a view of the chipped incisor, broken in a bar fight that to this day Mickey didn’t know who started. He’d taken his promise to Ian to live off Tequila quite seriously, and that night he and Ty had been celebrating Mickey’s unofficial promotion to Lieutenant since the street boss had ordered him to train a bunch of new soldiers.

“Actually I remember, Mick. Quite well, in fact.”

Unsure if he was supposed to read something into that comment, Mickey decided to clear things up between them just in case. “Only one and it belongs to someone else now.”

Ty studied him for a minute, then shrugged. “Pretty sure it always did, man.”

This was new territory for them. While the guy knew why Mickey had ratted on the cartel, they’d never formally talked about Mickey’s _feelings_. There was trust and a kind of respect between them, but there was also some level of emotion simply because of the time they’d spent together. He wasn’t interested in mixing that shit up with Ian.

So they fell silent, watching Roy strut around the weight area flashing his pearly white teeth like a game show hostess. He dreamed of knocking out each one, but he would settle for issuing a threat because he was pretty fucking desperate to get out of this shithole as fast as humanly possible, and beating that dickbreath to death wasn’t going to help his campaign.

“Old rival?” Ty asked.

“You could say he’s having a hard time letting go of the past.”

“What’d you do?”

“Might’ve tried to stab him. Job my bitch ex-wife hired me out for.”

“So you’re behind that scar on his face?” They laughed again. “How many motherfuckers have you stabbed, man?”

Thinking back to the discussion he’d had with Ian about _The Bible_ , he commented, “That fucker should just be grateful he doesn’t have to cut his dick off.”

“Well, I can’t argue with that.”

Finished with his smoke, Mickey hopped off the picnic bench, so he could stuff the butt in the cigarette receptacle mounted to the wall behind him. But his eyes never left Roy. “He's gonna try to sabotage Ian’s parole.”

“To get to you? Cause he knows you’re in love with the redhead?”

“The fuck,” he spat, shooting daggers at the inmates lingering around the smoking area, daring them to make something out of this.

Tyson shrugged. “It’s not a fuckin’ secret, Mick.” He finished his smoke, making the trek to the outdoor ashtray as well. “When does he get out?”

Mickey released his sigh of frustration. “Two days.”

“So what’s the plan then? What’da ya need from me?”

Mickey lifted his chin in the direction of the west court, where the outdoor toilets were housed. Six stalls in total, grouped in sets of three with low concrete walls between them and open to the afternoon sunshine, so they were partially visible to the guards in the towers.

“The asshole has a thing for doing his business in the outdoor toilets. Likes to fucking shit on the throne and gossip,” Mickey explained. “I’m gonna have a little chat with him while his pants are around his ankles. Need you to keep an eye on his buddies as well as the 5-0.”

“Like old times, huh? You scare the shit out of ‘em up. I--”

“Stand around getting high,” Mickey smirked but then felt like an asshole. Addiction sucked.

“I was gonna say make sure the coast was clear, but that’s probably more accurate.”

Mickey glanced at his profile again. “How you doing in here with all that?”

“Becoming a regular at the nightly NA meetings.”

“Seems like a harsh punishment,” he teased and Ty laughed.

As they watched, Roy entered into an elaborate hand pump/hug routine like he was leaving his homies forever.

“Looks like he might be on the move now,” Ty commented. “Should we join him?”

“I feel the urge to use the shitter right now in fact,” Mickey said, preparing himself for the confrontation by cataloguing each of his grievances.

“Even though it’s not 8:15?” Ty slung an arm around Mickey’s shoulder companionably. “I guess you’ve become the butt of my jokes.”

“Jesus, man, you’re as bad as Ian.”

“Let’s go fuck up this guy’s day for old time’s sake, my friend.”

They made their trek across the cement rec area, past the weights and a couple of punks playing hacky sack to where the toilets were tucked near the chain link fence away from prying eyes.

Roy had entered the far left stall, which was under surveillance from the eastern guard tower, but partially hidden from view by the angle. The guards needed to be able to see if anything serious was happening in the stalls, but they were also mandated to give inmates privacy to do their business as long as they weren’t serious troublemakers.

As Mickey approached, Roy’s low pitched voice carried toward him, full-on bragging about his entrepreneurial skills, adding to the shit Mickey wanted to throttle him over. Mickey was the businessman not this twat.

“Made a killing in Oak Park, down in Minnesota, ya know. They went smoke-free back in 20-15 so I got my girl to sneak in a tin of Bulger tobacco. Shit cost her 11 bucks, sold pinners for 25 a pop, made 800 fucking dollars, man.”

Holding in the snort of disdain (and tucking that information away for future consideration), Mickey nodded once at Ty, who turned slightly toward the tower watching for the armed guard to turn his attention to the activity in the toilets.

Mickey crouched down and palmed the swinging door, so he could poke his head into the first stall, where Roy’s gossip buddy was seated. He caught the guy’s surprised eyes then made a quick shushing motion followed by a slash across his throat, and the dude grabbed at his jumpsuit, which puddled around his ankles. Amateur, Mickey thought in contempt. You aren’t behind bars long before learning that it’s in your best interest to remove one foot from your pants in case you need to engage your fight or flight while doing your business. Otherwise, you’re tripping over yourself. Mickey hoped Roy was equally as stupid.

“Ralphie? Still there?” Roy asked. “Better not be stealing my business venture.” He chuckled at what he apparently thought was a joke.

“I’ll steal anything I fucking want,” Mickey stated, watching from where he was still crouched as Ralphie disappear around the corner. “Even your bullshit stories, Pinocchio.”

“Fucking _Milkovich_ ,” he snarled and Mickey smiled to himself. This was gonna be fun.

“Fire in the hole,” Ty announced in a hushed voice, and Mickey stilled.

“False alarm, Mick.”

Before the next round of surveillance, Mickey whipped around the edge of the half wall, knocking the door against the cement boundary. He squatted in front of Roy--who was, in fact, still tucked into the legs of his jumpsuit. His hand shot out, tattooed fingers digging into the surprised man’s neck and slamming his face into his knees.

“Keep your mouth shut, dickhead,” he hissed and got a whiff of the business Roy had been up to. “Damn, you learn anything about bathroom etiquette? Drop one, flush one, for fuck’s sake.”

He released some of the pressure on Roy’s neck, allowing him to glare murderously and make a move for Mickey’s throat.

“Go ahead, bitch,” Mickey hissed. “Test me. That’ll be real fucking fun.”

A chuckle from Ty floated over the side of the stall, and Mickey felt a wave of nostalgia before getting back to the business at hand.

“Listen up, snake boy. I’m only gonna threaten you once, then I’ll jump straight to killing you.”

Roy did nothing but glare, so Mickey took that as encouragement to continue.

“Interesting fact. My Aunt Randi is back in Logan, serving a nickel for aggravated assault,” Mickey paused for effect and to send up an apology for dragging his favorite Aunt into this. “ _Hmm_ , isn’t that where your girl is waiting on her parole hearing?”

When Roy started to struggle again, Mickey gave the wispy hair at the back of his neck a tug, so he’d be forced to sit still and endure the powerlessness. “No need to answer that cause I’m the one doing the talking, and you’re the one doing the listening. Right?”

Roy's jaw clenched and the scar on his cheekbone turned red. Mickey ran his finger along it, to remind this asswipe that he wouldn’t hesitate to finish the job he’d started back then.

“Any message you’d like my dear Aunt to pass on to your girl?”

Roy shook his head, trying to shrug Mickey’s hand from his neck unsuccessfully.

“Mick. It’s time.”

He patted Roy's cheek once then backed out of the stall. “Good talk. Your girl will be enjoying her freedom before you know it.” Then as an afterthought, he glanced back at the red faced man. “Have a bless-ed day.”

Ty chuckled again as Mickey joined him. Looking back at the toilet stalls to make sure Roy wasn’t stupid enough to follow him, they made their way through the courtyard toward the east doors.

“I think he got the mess--”

Mickey’s sentence was cut off by the sight of Ian exiting through those very doors, eyes stormy as he scanned the yard obviously looking for Mickey because no one got that mutinous look except for him.

“Trouble in paradise,” Ty commented, watching Ian stomp toward them. “See you around, Mick.”

“Yeah, see ya. And, hey,” he paused to make eye contact, “thanks.”

Tyson made a detour back toward the smoking area to avoid the redheaded storm headed their way. Sadly, Mickey didn’t have the luxury of hiding.

“What the fuck is going on?” Ian half hissed, probably aiming to keep his drama under control but doing a shit job of it.

“Nothing, for fuck sake’s.”

Ian’s eyes narrowed. “You’re lyin’.”

“Not the place for this goddamn lovers quarrel, man,” Mickey barked, grabbing Ian’s elbow roughly and propelling him back through the doors.

Once they were through, his pissy boyfriend yanked his arm free, glaring at Mickey. “What the hell?” Ian tried hissing quietly as he power walked through the hallway leading to A-tier. “I don’t even know which question to ask first.”

“I’m sure you’ll work it out.”

Gallagher came to a halt, right in the middle of the common area, where dozens of guys hung around just waiting for the afternoon’s entertainment to start. Mickey inhaled deeply, hoping he’d find some tolerance from a well that didn’t run too deep, but in a rare moment of anger-laced insight, he understood where Ian was coming from.

Mickey’d been doing what he had to do to make sure Ian got out of here, and clearly, Ian was worried that whatever he’d been up to was going to throw a damn wrench into their already precarious relationship.

“Let’s not do this here.”

“Fine.”

He could feel the redhead’s glare each time he turned toward him, but they kept their cool waiting to lose it until they were out of gen pop and in their cell.

“Why the hell were you with...that guy?” Ian demanded, stopping in front of their bunk, hands on his hips. The cell door mercifully closed behind Mickey.

“He was helping me out.”

 _“What the fuck does that mean?_ ”

Licking his bottom lip aggressively, Mickey eyed Ian. “This conversation is gonna go down fucking hill fast if you don’t get your shit together.”

Ian’s nostrils flare, his jaw looked like it’d been cut from granite, but he nodded once.

“Had a talk with Roy.”

“Without me?”

“Better that way.”

“Fuck you.”

“This is about my history with the guy.”

“Which guy?” He took an aggressive step toward Mickey.

“Fucking Roy, obviously.”

“It’s not fucking obvious, Mickey! You chose someone else over me to do this with!”

Mickey held up a hand because Ian was starting to lose his damn mind. “Look, Gall--”

“Don’t you dare call me fucking Gallagher!” Ian’s voice rose dramatically and his eyes got a little wild. “So we’re not a couple then?”

“That’s not what I’m saying and you know it.”

“How do I know it? You do this shit without me. You won’t agree to long distance,” Ian accused, stepping into Mickey’s personal space now. “And that guy from Juárez is your backup now? Not me!”

“ _Ian_ …” He pressed a hand to the redhead’s chest and lowered his voice to hiss. “Fine, just stop yelling. Don’t need Enzo taking goddamn notes on our conversations.”

Ian breathed deeply and waited.

“I told Roy that his girl wouldn’t make her parole if you didn’t make yours.”

“You threatened his girlfriend?” He took Mickey’s cue and stopped yelling.

“She’s in county lockup waiting on her parole, and she’ll stay there if you don’t get out on Friday.”

That plan appeared to meet Ian’s approval because he moved on quickly.

“Why was Juárez helping you?”

“His name’s Tyson,” Mickey said. “We already talked about this, Ian. He and I got some history.”

Ian waved an impatient hand.

“He rolled too.”

“ _What?_ ” Ian hissed. “And you didn’t fucking tell me this?”

“Right, cause you seem to be handling it like a champ,” he snapped. “Look, he was supposed to be in a different lockup, but someone fucked up the paperwork and he got transferred here, I guess. It’s cool, okay?”

“Why’d he roll?” Ian demanded.

“The street boss used him to test the merchandise and shit got fucked up, so he needed out. Not many ways to leave a cartel. So I...told him about my plan to roll and he jumped at it.”

“I was fucking right!” Ian yelled, startling Mickey. “He was your boyfriend!”

Mickey pinched his lips in annoyance. “God, you're a pain in the ass.”

“Unlike your ex-boyfriend, huh?”

“For chrissake.” Mickey was officially tired of this conversation. “He wasn’t my goddamn boyfriend.”

Ian’s eyes narrowed. “So you just fucked?”

Mickey’s eyes narrowed too. “Mostly.”

“Mostly?”

“We were in the same crew,” he explained. “So I guess we were co-workers too.”

Ian snorted. “Are you gonna fuck him after I leave?”

Mickey would have smiled at Ian’s expression if he didn’t hate the very thought of what he’d just said.

“Did he get the job?”

“What job?”

“As your new prison boyfriend?”

Ian suddenly deflated, whatever wave of anger he’d been riding disappeared. Mickey closed the distance between them, forcing Ian to bend his neck slightly so they were eye to eye. “Nah, that position is still vacant.”

Ian swallowed hard, eyes downcast as he twined his fingers with Mickey’s. “What can I do to make sure it stays vacant?”

But Mickey had no answer for that.

**Cell A20**

“I wonder who’s visiting you tomorrow,” Ian questioned from his usual spot on the top bunk. He was trying to finish _The Watchmen_ , so Mickey could return it to the library for him, since tonight was his last night in prison, but concentration was beyond him. He tossed the book aside and swung his legs over the edge of the bunk.

“Guess I’ll find out tomorrow,” Mickey said, balling up some toilet paper. “Not many people on my list who aren’t currently in jail. Ig got a bullet for illegal carry, and Col’s never getting out. Got so many infractions they put him in chronic indefinitely.”

“You miss your brothers?” Ian couldn’t imagine going years without laying eyes on his. In fact, he was even feeling the loss since saying his good-byes to Cobb and Dallas.

Mickey shrugged indifferently. “Milkoviches getting sent away is business as usual, man.” He flushed and gave Ian a _do you mind_ look, which Ian totally ignored.

“I’m gonna have to go hang out in the bathroom every night at 8:15,” Ian decided as Mickey pulled his jumpsuit over his hips.

“That a fact, Gallagher?”

“Let’s make a pact,” Ian began, grinning widely and watching Mickey’s scowl turn into suspicion. “I’ll stop whatever I’m doing at 8:15 every night and we’ll think about each other. Deal?”

Mickey held his hands out. “Mind if I wash before we shake on it?”

Ian dropped down to the cement floor, his cheap slippers absorbing none of the impact and met Mickey at the sink. Once he had a good lather, he looked at Ian, who was waiting patiently for confirmation. It might be really corny but now that the idea had taken root, he was into it big time. Knowing they were thinking of each other at exactly the same time felt intimate, and he was gonna grasp at every single chance for that.

“All right, you damn sap,” Mickey said, holding out a still damp hand. Ian accepted it, his fingers dwarfing Mickey’s. “You got yourself a deal.”

They stared at their clasped hands, a sliver of awkwardness between them at the sight because they were as much friends as they were lovers, and their history was sometimes more than they could deal with. Ian relaxed his fingers and their hands fell apart.

“But,” he said quickly to fill the silence, “that doesn’t replace daily phone calls. Gonna get my phone set up tomorrow, Mick, so you can call me. Whenever, okay? I’ll take it.”

“Sure.” Mickey grabbed his toothbrush from the cup next to the tap.

“You got my number memorized?”

“Since you’ve recited it about 1000 times over the last week, I’m feeling confident I’ll never forget it.”

Ian nodded seriously. “Wait, what if I can’t get my number reactivated?” He looked at Mickey in panic. “Then what?”

Mickey’s mouth was full of toothpaste foam, so he just shrugged.

“Where’s your sketchbook? I’ll write down everyone’s number,” he decided, grabbing the book from among the stack of toilet paper rolls at the foot of Mickey’s bed. He tossed the blanket until a #2 charcoal pencil fell out. “Start with Debs. She’s most likely to answer. Liam too.”

Thankful that he’d had to memorize their numbers over the year in order to call them, he scribbled it all down, even jotting Fiona’s information, just in case. Being unable to reach Mickey whenever he wanted made him feel a little sick to his stomach. What was going to happen during one of the lockdowns when phone calls were prohibited?

Tossing the sketchbook and pencil on his own pillow, he turned back to Mickey to share those concerns and come up with a plan. He had finished brushing his teeth and was leaning against the sink, arms crossed over his chest.

“ _Mickey_ …”

“Come ‘ere.”


	9. Episode 4 Recap

**Here’s what you missed on the last episode of Shameless…**

**Cell A20**

_Tap, tap._

Daniels passed by their cell, signalling the final count for the day and the last time Ian would hear that double tap or any of the other routine noises he’d become accustomed to over the last year.

The thing he’d most become accustomed to was the man washing his hands at the sink, one hip jutting to the side, like every other time he’d stood there. Ian was memorizing these small things, so he’d feel like they were still doing them together each day. Now that he was leaving, the things he found annoying were suddenly endearing.

“Count’s done,” he said in case Mickey wasn’t paying attention. Unable to resist, he stepped behind the warm body and wrapped his arms around it, tightly. His face tucked into the back of Mickey’s neck, where the skin was always pink and warm, and quite likely the spot that if asked Ian would classify as home.

“Suppose you wanna get on me.”

“Suppose I do.”

“A’ight.”

Ian chuckled into his neck then stepped away, so he could ditch his jumpsuit and lay down on the lower bunk to watch Mickey undress. He made a note of how his fingers moved over the snaps, always so confident and slightly impatient. Then he laid down beside Ian, but tucked his elbow beneath his body so he could hover over Ian.

Their noses almost touched and their breath definitely mingled, yet Mickey didn’t close the distance. His hand remained firm on Ian’s waist as they looked at each other. Just when Ian started to subtly worry, Mickey gave into the gravity that constantly pulled them together, closing the final inch and kissing him. Their lips pressed firmly together, and Ian felt his blood start to thrum in his veins, anticipating what was to come.

He couldn’t stop his mouth from opening so his tongue could find Mickey’s. That familiar, slow glide that sent desire to Ian’s nerve endings along with the wordless promise that he was the most important thing in Mickey’s universe.

Needing all of Mickey now, he rolled partially onto his side so he could get on top and make that happen, but the hand at his waist kept him pinned to the thin mattress and the tongue he’d been concentrating on swept around his purposefully.

Ian could play this game for a bit. He bent his leg, bringing his knee along Mickey’s thigh while his hand followed the curve of his ass making its way up to the back of his neck. Mickey settled in above him, knee tucking under Ian’s thigh while his hand slipped beneath his shirt and up the length of Ian’s spine.

The sensation in his gut forced a moan out of Ian’s throat, long and low and needy. Mickey’s hand tightened on his back, and the pressure suddenly exerted by Mickey’s pelvis against his caused the second moan. He wanted to tip his head back and howl that this was their good-bye. Instead, he found that rounded ass and pulled Mickey closer, thrusting lightly.

For several minutes, Ian’s awareness was on the harshness of their breath and the way they fit together. When Mickey released his mouth, heading for Ian’s throat, he turned his head to give those lips easy access, memorizing how they felt as they sucked tenderly at his skin.

He fought the melancholy that was trying to join them in the bed and focused on the sheer amazement that he got to feel this way with another human being. Affection and desire swamped him as Mickey’s lips continued to kiss a path along his neck, and Ian’s fingers played with the silky dark hair.

“I don’t wanna say good-bye,” he whispered so quietly that he half hoped Mickey wouldn’t hear him. “Gimme a hickey.”

Mickey’s lips paused on Ian’s skin.

“Somewhere hidden,” he explained, feeling weirdly excited by the idea like a tiny mark on his body had the power to keep him from sinking too deeply into despair over returning home without Mickey. “For me only.”

Mickey resumed his path along Ian’s collarbone, pushing his tank top out of the way, then sliding quickly downward until he reached Ian’s boxers. Tugging on the material, he exposed the flesh covering Ian’s hipbone, kissing it once then pulling the skin into his mouth, sucking hard.

His hand pressed into the material covering Ian’s erection making his chest constrict painfully at the sight of his tattooed fingers and his soft lips on Ian’s body. Knowing that it would be at least two years until he saw this sight or felt those hands again, he hoped to God that he could handle it this time. Unable to keep his emotions in check, he caressed Mickey’s hair, waiting for his mouth to return to his.

Mickey lifted his head, blue eyes framed by dark lashes and shining with emotion. He placed his hands on the mattress, framing Ian’s body and slowly crawled his way up. Eyes never leaving Ian's until their bodies fit together, lip to lip, hips grinding and moving their lovemaking in a direction that was more sexual, needy, demanding.

“Hey,” Ian rasped, when they took a breath. “Grab that mayo packet.” His already overtaxed heart thudded because he was sure he heard an annoyed “fuck’s sake” that was so Mickey-like that Ian added it to the memories he was collecting.

Reluctantly or not, Mickey stretched to reach the condiment packet piled on the neat stack of graphic novels at the side of the bed. He dropped it on Ian’s chest, then started to roll onto his stomach. This time it was Ian’s hand at his waist that stopped him. “Take your clothes off.”

Mickey glanced at the darkened doorway, toward the clock.

“We’re good. I bribed Daniels,” Ian said, smugly.

“To do what?” Mickey asked.

“Stay away until morning count.”

Mickey pulled back to look at him. “That must a cost ya.”

Ian shrugged. “It's a going away present. Now undress.” They both tore off their remaining clothing, piling it all at the foot of the bed for easy access.

Mickey turned in Ian’s arms so his back pressed firmly to Ian’s chest, in what Ian called their missionary position and Mickey called fucking unlikely, certain that missionaries never got into _this_ position.

The mayo packet was back in Mickey’s hand, and he held it aloft for Ian to reach.

“Put some on your cock,” Ian said, making sure he breathed the last word directly into his ear. “Wanna feel you first then we’ll get down to business.”

“Come on, man. I’d rather not.”

“Please,” Ian said, then added, “for me.”

He didn’t have to say it for Ian to hear it. Mickey’s whole body was capable of expressing the word “fuck” on his behalf, but he squeezed the little packet barely getting a dollop the size of a baby pea.

“The fuck is that?” he spat. “Looks like...lube.”

“Going away present number two.” His head whipped around to stare at Ian, who grinned triumphantly. “SurgiLube.”

“You jacked the infirmary?” he asked incredulously

“Decided to risk it, since I’ll be gone if they ever noticed,” Ian said while his fingers spread the lube. “Add more.”

Mickey did as he was told, and Ian wrapped a hand around him, eliciting a moan from both of them.

“Fuck I missed lube.” Ian craned his neck to see what his hand was doing, loving the look of it enveloping Mickey. “You feel so good. Christ.”

Mickey’s head dropped down to the pillow, and his ass pushed back into Ian’s dick. They moved that way for a few minutes, just enjoying this one small moment of normalcy. Lube and privacy.

“Ready?” Ian asked. Mickey’s response was to squeeze lube onto Ian’s fingers. “Okay then.”

Sliding three lubed up fingers between Mickey’s ass cheeks was like winning the goddamn lottery as far as Ian was concerned. He circled the middle one, pressing lightly against the opening, and Mickey shoved his face into his pillow, so he could groan freely.

“Yeah,” Ian agreed, finger moving deeper, in and out of Mickey’s body. “Jesus, more lube.”

Mickey swore, this time with more than his body, when Ian removed his hand, but he squeezed the packet as requested then Ian was back, finger pushing deep. He lifted up to his elbow so he could maneuver easier, pushing Mickey’s leg forward with his knee and giving him better access.

He looked down at his hand, moving inside Mickey’s body and his dick responded painfully. “Get some lube on me,” he commanded.

Mickey popped up from his pillow, scowl in place. “What?”

“Lube me up.”

“Do I look like a fucking contortionist, Ian?” But he squeezed some lube on his palm and blindly reached behind. Ian lifted his hips until he felt fingers grab him and slip down his dick, pumping a couple of times, while Ian inserted two fingers into Mickey and smiled when he shoved his face back into his pillow, muffled gasps music to Ian’s ears. Lining up, Ian slowly removed his fingers and Mickey’s hand dropped away.

Then he was fucking Mickey Milkovich, and that fact hit him as hard today as it hit him the first time. He’d been certain then that the muffled groans would turn to threats of bodily harm, but nothing, absolutely nothing then or now compared to being with him this way.

“I _love_ fucking you,” he breathed into his neck.

Mickey grabbed Ian’s hand and brought it to his chest, holding it there for a moment before sliding their twined fingers to his erection. His hips moved, trapped between Ian’s palm and his body. Thrusts getting faster with each movement. When Mickey’s hand came up to Ian’s neck and his ear pressed into Ian’s lips, Ian let himself go, moaning every sensation into Mickey’s ear as they came.

Once their heart rates slowed, Mickey turned in Ian’s arms so they could lay together on the pillow, face to face. They bumped foreheads to look at the space between their bodies, evidence of their night everywhere. Smiling, Ian reached out for his discarded boxers to clean them up.

“Are we going to spend our lives saying goodbye to each other?” Mickey asked, quietly.

“I fucking hope not.” Ian didn’t know how many more goodbyes they had in them. “Better be the last one.”

Catching Mickey’s eye, he said fiercely, “I love you though, and I’m waiting for you.”

In the quiet of the cell, he could hear Mickey swallow and Ian cupped the side of his face, thumb tracing the line of his lower lip like he’d been doing forever. Then he tightened his grip, holding firm to Mickey’s jaw and staring into his blue eyes. He wasn’t going to pressure Mickey to promise; instead he was going to prove it.

“And I don’t have to fucking lie to you.”


	10. Episode 5

**Cell A20**

“Don’t forget to check on my visitor application,” Ian reminded Mickey for the tenth time as he waited for a CO to escort him to processing. “Decision is supposed to take no more than six weeks.”

“Yup.”

“What if I’m denied?”

“Dunno.” Mickey was getting a fucking headache from all the talk of paperwork and shit. Fucking bureaucracy.

“Um,” Ian began and Mickey inhaled deeply, shoulders tensing from where he was seated on his bunk watching the redhead pace. Whatever was coming would be interesting to say the least.

“Um,” he repeated. “Dallas told me I’m more likely to be allowed back on the grounds to visit if we’re, uh, related. Family, ya know.”

“Gonna pretend you’re my mommy?”

Ian’s smile was one hundred percent fake, but he gave the guy an A for effort, especially when he dropped the subject of his visitations being denied. They couldn’t do shit about it, so no sense spending their remaining time together worrying over whether the Warden would okay his request.

“You got those phone numbers I left you?” Ian asked also for the tenth time.

Mickey ignored him, while Ian continued to pace the small cell, making a 180 every five steps. Eventually, the guy had to wear himself out.

“Shit, Mickey, we’re gonna go through your 300 phone minutes too fucking fast, then have to wait for the 3rd of each month until you’re revalidated. Shit,” Ian repeated. “Let’s do some math, figure out how many minutes that is a day. What’d I do with your sketchbook?”

Mickey’s chuckle stopped Ian from tossing his bed in search of the book and earned him a glare from his redhead. “What are you laughing at?” he asked petulantly.

“You need paper to do that math, Gallagher?”

“Fuck off. It’s division. Which sucks.”

“Well, let me take care of how long we can chit chat each day. I’ll crunch some numbers,” he teased. “Make a fucking spreadsheet.”

“Shut up, Mickey. This is serious!”

“Ian,” he said softly, patting the mattress beside him. Ian obeyed, flopping down inelegantly, shoulders slumped.

“I should a got in the fucking car,” he whispered, eyes on his lap. “Damn it.”

“Then we’d be stuck in Mexico for the rest of our lives. No fucking thanks.”

“At least we’d be together,” Ian argued, eyes on Mickey now. They were still the sweetest eyes Mickey had ever seen, probably the damn reason he fell so hard so fast.

“Maybe, who the fuck knows.” He hated imagining shit going wrong down there. Ian needing care and not being able to get it, or fucking losing his mind and getting mixed up in cartel bullshit. “Nothing good would a come of that.”

They were silent for a few minutes. Mickey could still feel waves of anxiety rolling off Ian, but there wasn’t much he could do about it now and even less after he was out of Mickey’s reach.

Ian shot to his feet again, resuming his pacing and earning another exaggerated sigh from Mickey. “Antonio said long distance never works,” Ian announced.

“The fuck is Antonio?” Mickey frowned. Better not be another fucking boyfriend he didn’t know about it.

“Joselito sent him to give me a rundown of Beckman just before I got here.”

“The fuck is Joselito?” Mickey was definitely getting a fucking headache.

“Leo’s boyfriend,” Ian explained, like that should be obvious. “Well, _ex-boyfriend_ because long distance never works.”

“I’m not even gonna ask who Leo is.”

“I married them in county lockup.”

“Right, of course you did.” He could feel a chuckle bubbling up at the absurdity of their life, but he swallowed it, figuring Ian wouldn’t see the humor in the moment. He was too busy freaking the fuck out. “Look, I don’t know this Jose and Louis but they aren’t us.”

Ian stopped pacing yet again, this time to nod vigorously, clearly expecting a longer speech than that. Mickey scratched his forehead, hoping for inspiration.

“We’re gonna try long distance?” he asked simply, and Ian continued his bobblehead impersonation. “Gonna fuck anyone else, Ian?”

The direction of Ian’s head changed comically as he disagreed aggressively with that idea. “No way. That’s just...gross.”

Mickey’s eyebrows shot up and he released his pent-up chuckle. “So we’re good then.”

“You gonna stop interviewing prison boyfriends?”

“Yeah, you seen the selection around here?” he teased. “Gross.”

Ian came to stand between Mickey’s knees, resting his hands on his shoulders. “What about your Juárez buddy?”

“Ian,” Mickey tried to interrupt.

“No, please listen. You’re stuck in here Mick, and he seems decent, got your back and all that. I’ll never have to know, okay?” Ian looked down at him, a ball of pent up anguish clearly hating this idea even though he was spewing the bullshit. “No kissing on the mouth though.”

“Jesus christ,” Mickey moaned. “First, no shit I ain’t gonna kiss anyone’s fucking mouth. Second, I still got two fully functioning hands, so I’ll survive. Third--”

“Okay!” Ian snapped. “I’m not gonna stop you from waiting!”

“Good!”

“I’m also not taking it back! You got a free pass if you need it!”

Mickey stood up, pushing Ian a few steps back. “Is this so you can get a free fucking pass if you need to get your rocks off with some dude?” A sudden and uncontrollable rage bubbled up, and Mickey wasn’t sure if he would be able to rein himself in.

“No!”

“Bullshit!” he roared. “Fuck you!”

“What the fuck, Mick!” Ian roared back. “I’m leaving any minute and you’re yelling at me!”

“You’re yelling at me too, asshole!”

“No I’m not!” Ian yelled. “I mean, yes, I am but I’m not mad at you!”

“I’m not mad at you either!”

“Then why are you yelling at me?” The sheen of wetness in Ian’s eyes stopped Mickey in his tracks.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, unsure what else he could say.

“I promise I wasn’t trying to get a free pass,” Ian tried again. “I don’t want one, Mick.”

“Then why the fuck do you think I want one, huh?”

“Just in case you _need_ one. This place sucks Mickey and you’re in here because of me. Always. Every fucking time you end up behind bars, I have something to fucking do with it,” Ian whispered. “I don’t want you to be lonely, okay?”

Mickey wrapped a hand around the back of Ian’s head bringing their foreheads together. “Yeah, okay. Thanks. But I’m good.”

Ian smiled a little, lifting Mickey’s spirits along with it.

“Now gimme a damn kiss,” Mickey said, then added, “ _on the mouth_ ,” making Ian expel that silly giggle that always got to Mickey, the sound convincing him that there were things in life that made all this bullshit worthwhile.

“ _Gallagher, time to leave._ ”

They froze for a couple of beats, staring into each other’s eyes, before Mickey wrapped his arms around Ian’s neck and held on tight.

**Beckman Correctional**

[Watch “Welcome home, Ian” courtesy of Tue](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7TEk3MIWF58)  
(I’ve inserted scenes between some of the sections of this video.)

Ian’s jeans felt tight after months in that jumpsuit and he half expected Raymond to yell at him for breaking out of prison, but mostly, it felt weird that he wouldn’t see Mickey’s face if he looked around.

“It’s Tami’s car. Kinda cute though, right?” Lip asked, heading around to the driver’s side of the little car while Ian opened the passenger door.

Ignoring his brother for a moment, he turned toward the solid brick building, still hearing the noise, the yelling, the intercoms, the doors constantly slamming shut. Imagining the vigilance and constant awareness. Remembering the dread in the pit of his stomach as he’d entered the place almost a year ago, and the certainty that he was headed for a depressive breakdown.

The pattern of his disease meant that the highs were inevitably followed by lows, sometimes with a few weeks of stability between, but the lows seemed inevitable, even when he got back on medication.

With that in mind, he’d walked through the facility gates after saying good-bye to his family. He’d been stripped, searched, processed and numbered, all the while wondering how long he had before the mental pressure of his new life fucked him up and, even more worryingly, what that would look like behind bars. Alone.

Of course, he’d never had to find out. Not only did he not slip under the weight of his disease, he wasn’t ever alone. Mickey had been there from day one, solid and dependable and fucking beautiful. What Ian had ever done to deserve Mickey’s utter devotion remained a mystery to him.

When Mickey had walked into the cell talking about rolling on a cartel in order to be together, Ian had touched his face for the first time in what felt like forever, just to make sure he was real and not another hallucination. Even with the stubble under the pads of his fingers, he’d felt certain that it had to be his disease that conjured up Mickey rather than mastermind level criminal planning.

But they’d kissed, and time had rewound itself, past the cloud of the last year, the heartbreaking border good-bye, the pause he’d forced on their relationship, even beyond the ghetto marriage, all the way back to the interior of a van in the midst of a heist. Back to the moment he’d first felt those lips against his. Back to a time when a kiss had felt like a beginning and not like an ending.

 _Holy fuck_ , Ian had whispered again when he’d finally broken contact. He’d continued to stroke Mickey’s cheek, trying desperately to express how fucking happy he was to see him, but unable to find any words that felt suitable for the moment. Mickey had just smiled, with his lips and his eyes.

Eventually, he’d rubbed a hand over Ian’s hair asking what the fuck was up with the dye job. Ian had explained about the aborted run for the border, and Mickey had smacked the back of his head lightly, amazed that he might have ended up in prison only to discover Ian was a fugitive in Mexico. Ian hadn’t appreciated the irony in that because it felt too much like the shit fate constantly served them.

Instead, Ian explained how he’d plead insanity for the second time in his life, and then he’d cried, unable to fight it any longer now that he didn’t have to. Now that he was with someone who understood him, he had been able to release all the pent-up sadness, fear, regret that he’d been holding onto for so long.

Right on to Mickey’s shoulders, but they seemed strong enough to carry it all and because of that Ian never crashed. He spent the year laughing at Mickey’s drawings, listening to his commentary about other inmates, bickering about toenail clippings and banging his boyfriend. All in all, a pretty good fucking year.

“So,” Lip asked, when Ian finally slid into the passenger seat of the little red car. “You sure you don’t wanna get some White Castle?”

Mickey stood at the reinforced window, watching Ian hug his brother and laugh at something he said.

“I’m gonna miss him,” Marv said. “We had some good conversations.”

Clearing his throat, Mickey mumbled a vague agreement and Marv returned to the library check-out desk, picking up the copy of _The Watchmen_ that Mickey had dropped on the counter moments before.

Ian opened the door of some chick ride, while Lip continued to talk his ear off, and Mickey felt a tug in his chest. Fuck’s sake, Ian had grown up to be the hottest guy he’d ever laid eyes on. He’d never fucking tell him that, but shit, seeing him in jeans and t-shirt that fit his body after a year of the hideous banana peel was the best send off he could’ve received.

Then Ian turned toward the building, looking right at the window where Mickey stood. The sun shone on his pale skin and bright hair, and Mickey couldn’t resist touching his fingertips to the glass.

He’d been looking at the guy through glass for what felt like half his goddamn life. Separated by invisible barriers because of Mickey’s criminal behavior. While it still fucking stung that those invisible barriers had been too much for Ian, it wasn’t the guy’s fault that the barriers were there to begin with. That shit was on Mickey, and it was also on him to stay the fuck out of prison once he was released. No more of this separation bullshit.

The car disappeared from sight and Mickey turned back to his life inside.

**Gallagher House**

“Welcome home, Ian.”

His heart sank as the only sounds that greeted his statement were the notes of some Spanish song coming from the Gallagher kitchen below. Their house, and the noisy, messy people who lived in it, were an anchor keeping him tied to this shore, bound by blood and history, but sometimes he wondered how much they noticed when he was gone.

Honestly, he thought, what had he expected? For Lip to bring his infant to a correctional facility to pick up his brother? For Tami to willingly let a felon she’s never met hold her newborn? For his siblings to put their lives on hold to greet him? A party with streamers and cake? Fighting the feeling that he was incidental in his siblings’ lives, he reminded himself that they didn’t do sappy. Their lives were always too fucking frantic for that shit.

He smacked his knees, stood up and headed to his room. He wasn’t fucking incidental in his boyfriend’s life and wallowing in self-pity was both dangerous to his health and pathetic when he was free and Mickey was still locked up.

Plus Mickey would be calling him at some point today and his phone was currently dead. He needed to get it charged so he could stop at a Sprint location before meeting his PO. Rummaging around his night stand, he found a cord then went in search of the step ladder, so he could crawl around the attic locating the garbage bags of clothes he’d tucked away before leaving for prison.

Not only did he find the bags up there, he remembered the alarm clock he’d left as a wake-up call for his siblings, imaging them groggily running around looking for the source. It lightened his mood a little. The assholes were his family, for better or worse.

Before he could escape the dusty attic, he spotted a box labeled “Ian” in messy black ink and pulled it toward the hatch, figuring a trip down memory lane might take his mind off the present.

First, he had to find the iron and ironing board because the only dress wear he owned, khakis and a dress shirt, were wrinkled as hell but thankfully clean. While the iron heated up, he flipped open the memento box.

A handful of baseball cards and comic books. A baggie full of medals. Outstanding Junior Cadet. Brigade Ranger Challenge Winner. Bronze Medal Athlete. Civil Leadership. Ian tossed the bag on his bed, knowing that he was headed straight for a pity party if he kept looking at the reminders of his first stalled career.

The iron sizzled from where it was perched on the board behind him, but he couldn’t stop himself from lifting the black scrap of material from the box before getting ready to head out. Grinning, he brought the sleeveless t-shirt to his nose and imagined it still smelled like Mickey. He knew it didn’t because he’d done this countless times, hoping he’d get a different result, that he’d suddenly have a superhero level sense of smell. A few times over the last couple years, he’d even worn it just to feel a connection. For now, he folded it and stuffed it under his pillow.

Figuring it was time to get ready for his PO meeting, he picked up the box, but the movement jostled the remaining items revealing a picture of him and Monica. Kindergarten graduation. Ian looked closely at the afro of red hair he was sporting and the blown out knees on his hand-me-down jeans. Basically the few photos of him from his childhood looked like that, but few featured Monica.

He brought it close to his face to study it, searching for signs of the illness waiting beneath his curls to claim what was left of his delusion that life didn’t always have to fucking suck. All he saw was a stupid ass kid, proud as fuck that his mostly absentee mother made it to his graduation.

Shifting his gaze to Monica, he was better able to detect her instability, since she clung to Ian with the ever present neediness; he imagined her fingers clawing at his shoulders and her cheap perfume clawing at his nose. The sorrow he’d fought so hard to push through as a disillusioned kid returned, but it was tempered by time.

However, the dread that her legacy left in him soared, and he imagined standing beside his own son, having tormented him with promises of love and support that never materialized because he wasn’t able to contain his ups and downs.

“Fuck that,” he snapped, tossing the photo into the box and shoving the flaps into place so he wasn’t tempted to keep looking. “I’m not fucking Monica.”

**Cell A20**

Mickey leaned against the metal railing outside his cell, listening to Gator natter about his latest concoction while he stared at Ian’s bare mattress.

“Best batch yet, Mick,” Gator professed. “Thinking of selling this shit when I get outta here. Gonna call it Artisanal Pruno, ya know, like the hipsters do.”

Sucking on his cheek, Mickey forcefully turned away from his cell to concentrate on Gator’s excited features. “What’s so special about it? No one has ever made a batch of prison hooch that deserves this much fucking propaganda.”

“No, see, I got a secret ingredient,” Gator half assed a whisper since this strip of tier seemed to be social central all the fucking time. Mickey felt like peeing all over it, so these fuckers would find a new location to loiter, but he kept his junk in his jumpsuit.

“You gonna share it or just tease me?” He crossed his arms, giving Gator a look from under his furrowed brows. He missed the fuck out of Ian for so many reasons he didn’t have time to list them all.

Gator leaned in close, giving Mickey a whiff of his tobacco breath and signaling a nicotine craving, but he opened his eyes wide encouraging the guy to spit it the fuck out already.

“Ketchup!”

Mickey recoiled. “The fuck, G? That’s disgusting.”

“No, gonna give you a personal wine tasting,” he vowed. “Be ready in less than a week.”

Getting wasted held a certain appeal, but botulism did not. “You gonna poison me?”

“Nope, stopped using potatoes years ago. Been focusing on a more complex finish lately.”

He knew shit about wine, but Gator had him convinced. “It’s a date, then, even if it’s not the chemical cocktail I’m interested in, man.”

“K2 is too fucking dangerous, Mick. Sasquatch is still in the ding wing after hallucinating that he was Alice in fucking Wonderland.” Gator shook his head sadly as if losing that hairy motherfucker touched him personally. Sure, the guy had a rep for giving good blowies, but Mickey wouldn’t let him near his dick with a ten foot pole.

They lapsed into silence with Mickey dreaming about some decent herbal blend that wasn’t covered in a chemical that would force him to deal with the fucking Mad Hatter.

While they stood around killing time, CO Raymond delivered a mixed race dude a few years older than Mickey to his cell.

“The fuck?” Mickey snapped, as the guy tossed a couple of mesh bags of shit on Ian’s fucking bed.

“New cellmate, Milkovich,” Raymond said, hands on hips, face stern. “And I don’t wanna hear a word about it. Understood?”

“Yes, boss,” Mickey grunted. Raymond gave him one more glare and headed back down the stairs.

“ _Day-am,_ ” Gator whispered, clamping his big ass paw on Mickey’s shoulder. “Better check his papers, dog.”

Mickey nodded, entering the cell and planning to metaphorically whip out his junk, so it was clear who controlled this 70 sq. ft of space. The guy spoke before Mickey could start his postering.

“Julio,” he offered, holding out a hand to Mickey, who ignored it. “You must be my cellie.”

“Papers,” Mickey growled.

“Got ‘em right here.” Julio produced a couple sheets from one of his bags proving he didn’t mess around with kids, which was standard operating procedure when you got a new cellmate. Inmates didn’t want to be tainted by association.

“Forgery?” Mickey’s eyebrows hit his hairline after reading what the guy was incarcerated for. He nodded his approval. “Check fraud?”

Julio shook his head, and Mickey bit his lip in interest.

“Counterfeiting.” Julio shrugged slightly, looking sheepish.

“ _Shiiiit_.”

“Don’t recommend it. All it got me was 8 to 15 years of sanitation in this shithole,” he explained. “Chemical and medical waste, to boot.”

Mickey nodded again, having forgotten his plan to intimidate the guy. “Laundry,” he supplied and Julio nodded. “Taking orders.”

“Good to know.”

“You over from Max? Look familiar.”

“Yeah,” Julio agreed. “Good behavior. Finally in the sweet camp and never wanna wear that orange jumpsuit again. You did time there?”

“8 to 15.”

Julio returned his papers to the bag and pulled out a pack of Spearmint gum, offering a piece to Mickey, who declined. “You here on good behavior, too?”

“Not quite. You’ll find out quickly my tag is Rabbit.”

His new roomie whistled. “I see we’re gonna have a lot to talk about,” Julio concluded, tossing the pack of gum onto the bed and moving toward the door. “First, I gotta head over to my new gig. Transferred to office trash. No more plague infested trash bins for me.”

“See ya ‘round.” Mickey lifted a hand in farwell, wondering what the fuck just happened. But more importantly, wondering what he could learn from his new cellmate.

**Parole Office**

[Watch “Let’s go take a tinkle” courtesy of Tue](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2tPB9PkWhBc)

**Visiting Hall**

“Fuck you doin’ here?”

“Maybe I fuckin’ missed you, asshole.”

Mickey stared at his sister as he dropped down to the chair across the table from where she was seated. Hugging wasn’t their thing, so he didn’t need to monitor the CO situation for acceptable behavior. Instead he tipped his chin at her in greeting.

“Been awhile, ya know?” she added.

“Bullshit.” Whatever she was here for might take the full visit to get to the bottom of since she wasn’t getting to the point.

She crossed her arms, dark-lined eyes narrow and unforgiving, until they rolled heavenward in defeat. “Well, technically, it _has_ been awhile, Mick.”

“Sure, but something’s fucking up.”

“Ian called me.”

“What? When?” Mickey couldn’t stop the spike in his heart rate assuming the worst. “Fuck happened, Mandy?”

“Nothing,” she said. “Calm the fuck down.”

Releasing a huff, he lifted a finger in salute. “Well, don’t start a goddamn sentence that way.”

“Yeah, yeah. Anyway he called last week. Told me to tell you that I’m going away present number three.”

Mickey looked away, eyes on the paper coffee cup she’d sat on his side of the table.

“Still sickeningly in love with him, huh?”

An immediate negative reaction started to form on his tongue, but he was done hiding that shit, so he simply shrugged.

“Good,” she said. “How the fuck are you?”

He sat forward, folding his hands around the lukewarm cup, wondering if she really wanted to know how the fuck he was or whether she was waiting for him to simply say he was fine. Maybe, he decided, this was Ian’s way of offering him someone to talk to about stuff. “Been better.”

She sipped lightly from her own coffee, and Mickey did the same, eyebrows lifting in surprise at how good it actually tasted. She’d remembered that he liked extra milk, and that messed with his emotional state a little more than it should.

“Missing Ian?” Her eyes were like hard little gems when she got intense about something she cared about, and Mickey wasn’t sure if it was him or Ian at the moment. Maybe it was both.

“Course I am, but what else is fucking new?”

“I saw him while you were locked up last time.” She paused to stare over his shoulder in thought and he waited her out. “Helped me out with some serious shit.”

“Yeah?”

She didn’t elaborate and he didn’t ask. A prison visiting hall probably wasn’t the best location to share whatever a Milkovich deemed serious shit.

“After giving me a hand, he told me he missed you.”

“He said that?” So he’d told Mandy but he didn’t have the fucking balls to tell Mickey? He let out an angry breath, grabbing onto what he always grabbed onto. His conviction that Ian had always loved him, from day one pretty much, and that they were fucking good together.

She nodded. “I was being a bitch and made a shitty comment about you and he said he missed you. Fuck, I remember thinking that he must be really hurting to say that cause he’s always been locked up tight where you’re concerned.”

Since this might be his only chance to get an outsider’s view of what Ian was going through while Mickey had been locked up, he pushed for more. “Say anything else?”

“Not about you, no.” She watched him closely. “I was kinda fucked up and in my own head. Plus we all assumed you were gonna be out of the picture for years. So it seemed good that he was focused on passing some exam.”

“So, what else did he talk about?”

She sipped from her coffee, taking her sweet time and causing Mickey to lean forward as his gut clenched in preparation. “Not telling me something?” When she shrugged, he pressed. “Mandy.”

“I’m sorry. You’re my brother and I want to...help you. I just don’t see any good comin’ from talking about old shit that’s better left buried.”

Swiping a tongue over his lower lip in agitation, he moved his hands to the table but kept them on his side. “It doesn’t fucking stay buried, that’s the problem.”

“Then ask him yourself.” When he recoiled, she laughed. “If you aren’t prepared to talk about it then what’s the point of knowing?”

“Cause...I _need_ to know what he was thinking back then.”

“While you’re stuck in here?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “Look, I honestly don’t know shit about what he was thinking, Mick, but I fucking know he always loved you. And I know you assholes are lucky.”

Mickey snorted. “Yeah, I mean look around.” He waved his hand slowly, passing the guard cage, the dozen tables of inmates and their families, the canteen and finally the electronic exit. “Alone is fucking prison.”

“Beats being alone in fucking life.”

“Fuck.”

She shifted in her chair, tightening her shoulders. “I’m moving.”

That conversation was over obviously and nothing he said was going to bring it back, so he agreed to the change of subject. “Moving where?” He picked up the coffee cup. “You here to see if I can get a truck and help you carry boxes?”

She smiled a little. “No fucking way. You’d just sell my shit.”

“Only if you got a barcalounger.”

More of the ice melted around their relationship over the shared memory.

“No,” she hesitated. “I’m moving...away.”

“Outta Chicago?”

She nodded. “Texas.”

“The fuck?”

“Met someone.”

“How the fuck do you meet someone in Texas?” he asked, unsure why this information rubbed him the wrong way. “You a traveling salesman now?”

“Online, Mickey,” she laughed now. “It’s the 21st century, old man.”

“You shittin’ me? You’re gonna move across the country cause of some dude you skyped?” he snorted in disbelief. She might be lonely, but it beat being chopped up by some online stalker.

“You’re giving _me_ dating advice?” she snorted back. “If I was gonna ask anyone for advice, I’d ask Ian.”

He narrowed his eyes, searching her face for the punchline. “Why? You looking for a dude with one foot in the grave?”

“True, most of the time his taste is shit, but he gave his heart to the right person,” she said softly and they both turned their attention to their coffee cups until she grinned. “And he figured it out when that person was still a mouthy little shit with a Napoleon Complex.”

Ignoring the compliment, he glared at her suspiciously. “Fuck are you talking ‘bout ice cream for?”

“I’m talking about small dog syndrome, Mick.”

His coffee cup paused on the way to his mouth. “Least I don’t have female dog syndrome,” he muttered.

“Accurate,” she agreed contentedly.

They sipped coffee for a couple minutes, more at ease now that they’d shared a couple of digs at each other’s expense.

“Hey, remember Mom bringing us here to visit Dad?” Mandy asked suddenly.

“Course,” Mickey said, accepting the change of topic gladly. “We always got to pick something from the vending machine. Highlight of the fucking week.”

Mandy sat forward and lowered her voice. “Until she filled my sock with coke.”

“You mean until you _lost_ that coke in the toilet,” he whispered back, and they laughed, eyes meeting then moving away.

“Christ, I thought I was gonna go to jail if they caught me,” she moaned. “I probably lost it on purpose.”

“No five year old can hold their bladder for three trains and a bus ride,” he offered. “When you gotta pee, you gotta pee.”

He watched her lips move into a smile. “First thing I did when I got here today, in fact.”

“Yeah? Anything fall outta your sock?” he whispered, eyes sliding past the man sitting in the enclosed guard station.

“I’m clean.”

“Good.” They sat in silence for a few minutes, sipping coffee and trying not to retrace their childhoods. “When do you leave?”

“End of the month. I got a nest egg and I’m thinking of going to school down there. Maybe.”

“He’s a good guy?”

“I’m not sure I’d know a good guy if I tripped over one, ya know?”

Mickey nodded. “Can you just promise me one thing?”

“Maybe.”

“Call me and Ian if he’s not.”

She sat across the table from him as elusive as she’d always been, but he hoped that maybe this time would be different.

**EmergeVac Station**

[Watch “I ain’t getting involved in insurance fraud” courtesy of Tue](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=G82UiMFildw)

**Chow Hall**

“Gotta scan it at 2,400 DPI minimum,” Julio explained, leaning in toward the three men sitting at the long cafeteria table with him. “Creates a 10 megabyte file. Good quality.”

“Computer, huh?” Gator asked, mouth still stuffed with Ramen cookie. “Don’t got one of those. Can you do it from your phone?”

Julio laughed. “I bet someone somewhere is figuring out how to use their smartphone to defraud the US mint.”

“ _Shit_ ,” Mickey hissed when Roy entered the cafeteria at that moment, clearly doing his best to ignore Mickey and his buddies who were now following his progress. With his eyes on his cheap prison issue slippers, Roy slunk slowly toward the stack of plastic trays.

“Rabbit’s a snake charmer now,” Gator chuckled. “Ain’t that right, Mick?”

“For now. But that particular snake is just biddin’ his time,” he grunted, still sizzling with dislike and the stirrings of his fight reflex, which had been more or less dormant while Ian was around. The guy had kept him preoccupied enough that he’d barely been aware of how annoying the rest of the world was, but now he needed a new outlet.

From the seat next to him, Martinez laid a hand on Mickey’s shoulder, fingers tightening just a little as he directed his attention to Julio, “So how’d you get caught?”

“Fucking paper.” He rubbed his index finger and thumb together, pulling Mickey’s attention away from Roy. “The feel of money, know I’m sayin’? No mistaking it.”

“Been nine goddamn years since I’ve felt any,” Martinez sighed, rubbing his own fingers together in memory.

“I hear that,” Julio added. “The shit they use for printing bills is illegal to sell though, but I had a buddy in the Bureau of Engraving and Printing.”

Roy was forgotten as Mickey’s ears perked up. Now this was his kind of scam. “What happened? The guy fuck you over?”

All four of them froze when Raymond sidled past, giving them a thorough once over. “Monthly book club meeting, gentlemen?” he asked.

“Yup,” Mickey nodded. “Talking ‘bout _Ulysses_.”

That got a surprised look from the CO, but he didn’t ask for receipts. “Hope it has a happy ending,” he chuckled.

They watched him continue on his evening rounds, waiting until he was two tables away before leaning back into their huddle. “That Bureau dude the reason you’re in here?” Mickey asked again.

Julio nodded. “Be careful who you trust.”

“Shit, yeah.” Mickey chewed his lip, eyes doing a quick scan of the room passing over the two COs and the handful of inmates still finishing their meal. “So, I knew a guy.”

The others slid their eyes around the room too before leaning in even further. Gator dropped his cookie onto the plastic serving dish because he knew a fucking story when he heard one.

“Down south ‘o the border.”

“Mexico?” Marty asked.

“Met ‘em there, but he’s from wherever the fuck Lima is.”

Julio nodded. “Peru.”

“Could be,” Mickey agreed. “Anyway, this fucker was telling me ‘bout the _new_ narcotrafficking that ain’t trafficking in narcotics.”

Roy took a seat several tables away, placing his tray of beef stroganoff in front of him, and all four men paused their conversation to scowl at him.

“Fake bills?” Gator asked once they’d finished intimidating the guy.

“Thirty million in fake fucking _U.S._ bills.”

“ _Day-am!_ ” Julio smacked the table, eyes bright with excitement. “Smuggled into the States like fucking drugs.”

“Yup, hollowed out Bibles and shit like that.”

They released a collective sigh that bordered on sexual. Four men raised on scams, imagining orchestrating one that brilliant.

**Gallagher House**

[Watch “You gonna marry Mickey?” courtesy of Tue](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yLNuf-7Pyc4)

“You gonna marry Mickey?”

“Fuck no.”

His deeply ingrained instinct to deflect kicked in as he swallowed a mouthful of cheap beer. It was followed by a flash of memory. One he knew logically wasn’t real even though it felt as real as any other memory from that period of his life. So much fucking white, making him think of Heaven with its brilliant illumination and promise of peace, beckoning him forward to where Mickey and Yev waited. Then the same memory weeks later from inside of a psych ward. They were waiting for him, and he had been so sure they needed him, but he had never reached them.

“Do me a favor,” Lip said, yanking him back to the present. He held the e-cigarette out to Ian. “Destroy this.”

Ian accepted it, determined to stay in the here and now as prescribed in prison therapy. Don’t dwell in the past or project into the future. Deal with the moment.

Lip tapped Ian’s neck as he stood up. “See ya.” They shared a smile as his brother returned to the party, where his family and a bunch of strangers were drinking and eating and just generally enjoying the tail end of Ian’s welcome home party.

“Yeah.”

Ian released an exhausted breath from where he sat on the stairs. No one really expects it to be this hard to transition back to regular life, since the goal the whole you’re behind bars is to get to the outside. Life hadn’t slowed down so he could get his footing, and he’d been thrown into the deep end with his new parole officer.

But mostly, he felt off because he hadn’t heard from Mickey yet and kept worrying he’d missed his call. His phone showed no new activity, but it did show that it was almost time for their nightly pact to think about each other. At least, if they didn’t talk, they still had their pact.

8:10

He tried not to let anxiety take root in his body. Just because Mickey hadn’t called didn’t mean that something awful had happened. All kinds of shit went down in prison that interfered with their routine. Lockdowns. Tossing rooms. Phone privileges denied because one asshole misbehaved. Even simply long line-ups that aggravated Mickey so much that half the time he got kicked out of the line.

8:11

He pictured Mickey’s aggravated face, loving all the expressions that crossed his features, cocky, angry, aroused, but exasperated had to be Ian’s favorite. He was so fucking cute when he was irritated with the world. All the way back to adolescence, when it had been covered in dirt and bruises, Ian had loved that face and the stories it told.

8:12

Stifling a yawn, he wondered when this long ass day would ever end. From saying good-bye to Mickey, to seeing his family, to meeting Paula, to wondering where the fuck Mickey was tonight. The stressors were all there, and he really needed to make sure he monitored himself because the most common trigger for a mood swing was stress. He tried to remember all the things he’d told Mickey he’d do to keep himself in check. Talking to him had been at the top of the list, damn it.

8:13

He’d made sure Mickey had his phone number, reminding him right up the last moment when Mickey’s arms tightened around him in the cell, and he’d whispered in Ian’s ear, “course I was gonna wait, dummy.” It had made Ian smile, a little wetly before he put on his prison face and walked away from the man he loved.

8:14

He snuck up the stairs and closed the door to his teenage bedroom, needing privacy while he thought about Mickey. He ran his thumb under the waistband of his khakis, over the red mark left by Mickey’s lips, and closed his eyes. The flash of white was back but this time as a photograph. A professional photo of a firefighter posing with his husband and kid, the image tacked to the inside of the man’s locker.

“Fuck,” Ian’s eyes popped open and his phone chirped.

8:15

He almost dropped it in his haste to accept the Facetime call.

“Mick? Mickey?” he said when a face appeared. “ _Mick_.”

“‘Sup Gallagher?”

“How long?” Ian demanded, his previous spiral forgotten.

“Ten.”

He settled into the corner of his bed, knees pulled close. “Are you Facetiming from the fucking toilet?”

“Nah,” Mickey drawled and the camera flashed toward the empty toilet then back to his face. “Told my new cellie that I had an appointment every night at 8:15 with someone named john and he better scram.”

“New cellie? Already? Who is it?” Ian attempted to absorb all the information without wasting any time on processing. Ten minutes was going to feel like far, far less.

“Julio. Transferred from Max for good behavior,” Mickey explained, a big smile on his face. “Guess what he’s in for, Ian.”

“Um, jaywalking?”

“Counterfeiting!”

Ian felt a wave of affection. He looked so happy to be talking about illegal money making. “Wait! No, Mickey! N.O. No!”

“Calm your tits, man. I’m goin’ straight-ish when I get out.”

“And don’t you forget it.” They smiled at each other. “Missed you.”

“Hasn’t even been a day.”

“Jesus, don’t say that. Fuck.”

“No pouting during our ten minutes. Tell me about your PO visit. Get a job?”

“More like I got roped into insurance fraud, Mickey.”

“Shit,” he hissed. “A fucking crooked PO. Goddamn it. What happened?”

“She snorted up, pissed into a cup and threatened to put my name on it!”

“Classic move,” Mickey mused.

“Then wanted me to pretend to defib a non-existent patient then give her an imaginary emergency abortion.”

“So they could bill the city,” Mickey said, nodding. “Smart.”

“No, it’s not! People need those services for real, Mickey. What if--”

“Yeah, yeah, I meant from a business perspective. So what’re you gonna do?”

“I refused to participate, and that’s what I’m gonna continue to do.”

Mickey shook his head all through Ian’s plan. “Don’t work that way, Ian. Not if you wanna avoid ending up back here, and you’ll probably show up with new fucking charges.”

“Jesus.”

“Okay, here’s what you gotta do,” Mickey began, looking sternly at Ian. “You listening?”

“Course,” Ian agreed. If anyone knew what to do in this circumstance, it was Mickey.

“Not a fucking thing. You hear me?”

Ian frowned.

“Repeat after me. I, Ian, promise you, Mickey…” he paused but Ian remained mute. “To do fucking nothing.”

“But Mickey,” he tried again, needing him to understand how impossible it would be to do nothing.

“Come on, Ian. We got like five minutes left, man.”

“Right, sorry.” He adjusted his position, laying fully on the bed so he could press his finger against the hickey on his hip bone.

“What are you wearing?” Mickey asked, apparently reading his mind.

“What’d ya want me to be wearing?”

“No, literally, what the fuck are you wearing?”

Ian looked down at the Southside #18 jersey and laughed. “Liam scammed them for the party.”

Mickey nodded happily. “They threw you a welcome home party?”

“Yeah.”

“Good, that’s good.”

“Hey, did you get a visitor today?” Ian gave him a lopsided grin. “Going away present number three, _baby_.”

“Not bad, Gallagher. Gonna need to blow you.”

“Learned from the best.”

“True, I do give good head.”

Ian laughed, watching Mickey try not to smile. “Fucking amazing head, in fact.”

“First thing I’m gonna do when I get out.” They stared into each other’s eyes for a few beats until it got too heavy.

“So how’s Mandy doing?” Ian asked.

“Moving to Texas.”

“Yeah, she mentioned that. Maybe it’s a good thing. Get away from all the shit here.” He added softly as a lifetime of emotion crept up on him, “She once said just cause we grew up here doesn’t mean we’re stuck here.”

“Fuck else is there to go?” Mickey got that serious look, like he was starting to fret and Ian regretted using their time for heavy shit.

“Fiji?” He suggested then glanced at the corner of his phone screen. “Two minutes left.”

Mickey released a long breath. “You get your meds?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Make sure.”

“Yeah. I promise.”

He disappeared from the screen for a second. “How’s the baby?” he asked when his face returned.

“Not sure, haven’t gotten to hold him yet.”

“Why the fuck not?” Those eyebrows shot up in offense.

“Tami’s having a rough time.”

Mickey made a non-commital noise.

“So your cellie seems okay?”

Mickey nodded slightly. “Think so, but not sure yet if he snores, so time will tell.”

“Is he good looking?”

That got a laugh. “Gorgeous.”

“Fuck off,” Ian narrrowed his eyes playfully then sighed. “One minute.”

“Can’t afford to Facetime every day, Ian.”

“I know,” he pouted. “Maybe once in a while though?”

“Course.”

“Okay, so, um,” Ian began. “I...love you.”

“Love you too.”

“ _Times up._ ”

Hearing Daniels’ voice made Ian want to scream in frustration, but he kept his smile in place for Mickey’s sake.

“Gotta go.”

“Okay, one more thing,” Ian said, sitting up. “Check your sketchbook.”

“Yeah?”

“Going away present number four.”

They looked hard at each other one more time.

“You hang up first,” Ian said, blowing Mickey a kiss and getting a wink in response then the screen went blank. He stood up, feeling up to the task of joining the party once again.

[Watch “Welcome home you damn felon” courtesy of Tue](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aImuK78t9eY)

**Cell A20**

Once the cell phone was back in Daniels’ possession, Mickey sat on his bunk with his sketchbook, flipping through until he found several pages covered in Ian’s cramped handwriting, pencil dark against the page because he pressed so damn hard. Mickey’s gaze skimmed the page, and the first words to jump out at him were tongue and ass.

Julio chose that moment to enter their cell, and Mickey slammed the sketchbook closed, almost guiltily, like he was afraid to get caught by his mom or some shit. He stuffed the book under his pillow, wondering how hard he was going to get when he read it later. Julio’s snoring might not be the only noise coming from the cell tonight.

“You talking to your girl?” Julio asked as he spread a sheet over the mattress on the top bunk. “Saw the envelope, figured you were forking out for a little Facetime.”

“Yeah, more or less,” he said then remembered his decision during his visit with Mandy. He was out, not just about what got him off but about who got him off, and the rest of the world could just fucking deal with it. “I was talking to my _guy_. Got released this morning.”

“Oh yeah, Gay Jesus, right?” He couldn’t see Julio’s face because he was stretching to reach the sheet to the corner of his bunk, but he didn’t sound particularly disgusted by the confession.

“Ian,” he stressed.

“Sorry.” He’d finished tucking his sheet and shoved his pancake of a pillow beneath his chin, so he could slip the pillow case on. “The loneliness is real, though.”

“Ah, I ain’t looking for a new prison boyfriend,” he said. “No offense.”

Julio chuckled. “Me either. Got a wife,” he paused. “We got married less than a year before they busted down my door.”

“When was that?”

“Five years ago.”

“Shit,” Mickey offered. It had been almost that long since he and Ian had been free to be together, so he felt for the guy. “You doing long distance?”

“We’re married, Mickey,” Julio smiled, grabbing his toothbrush from his supplies. “It’s a life sentence.”

“Some people think it’s just a piece of fucking paper.”

As he loaded his toothbrush with paste, Julio shrugged. “Suppose it could be. Dude I knew married a chick so he could get conjugal visits back when that shit was allowed. But it changes when love’s involved, man. Definitely not just a piece of paper.”

Mickey tried to keep his breathing steady as Julio brought the toothbrush up to his mouth, then paused to add, “It’s like telling the world that this is the person who...”

He glanced over his shoulder at Mickey, a thoughtful look on his face as he contemplated the rest of his sentence.

“...makes you free?”

Julio nodded slowly. “Yeah, man, I like that.”


	11. Episode 5 Recap

**Here’s what you missed on the last episode of Shameless…**

**Beckman Correction**

Nine days.

The transition to life behind bars without Ian was going as well as expected for Mickey. Since he’d been through this shit with Ian before, he knew what to expect but still didn’t appreciate time moving like a fucking sloth.

Because their routines had clashed, he didn’t get to hear Ian’s voice every day, and when they did talk, Ian always asked if Warden Ashland had approved his visitation. He hadn’t heard anything, which was fine since Mickey knew the request would come back officially denied on the grounds that Ian was a parolee, and would probably never be approved. Because the real denial would be based on Ashland’s desire to soothe his humiliated ass. Wardens didn’t take it well when inmates escaped and _then_ returned making demands about who they shacked up with.

Speaking of escaping, Mickey must truly be a dumb motherfucker because he’d spent way too much time the last week working out how he might escape _again_. Beckman really needed to up their game since he’d found seven possible escape routes...and he wasn’t even really trying, for fuck’s sake. They were practically begging him to escape.

Fed up with dwelling on Ian and pacing the catwalk, he headed down the stairs to the common area. Ordinarily, when he was this pissed off and agitated, he’d find someone willing to bend over for him. Ian claimed he had a free pass, that it wouldn’t technically be cheating. At least according to Ian.

He let his mind consider it. Asking Tyson to meet him in the last stall of the east bathroom, where they could handle their business in private. He tried to imagine him on his knees for Mickey, but all he could picture was Ian, mouth stretched around him, soft hair under his fingers.

 _Fuck_.

He punched the air in frustration, surprising a couple dudes playing Backgammon. Mickey had zero problem being faithful _if_ Ian was waiting, truly waiting. If he was committed to Mickey then that was more than enough to get through the next 700 goddamn days.

So he moved on to other possible outlets. A pistol and some targets would be his next choice, which was clearly never gonna happen.

The door to the TV room opened and Paulie exited, giving Mickey a view inside the room. Rebel, that fucking skinhead motherfucker, stood in front of the television, remote in his giant paw as he flicked through the handful of available channels.

The guy was easily twice Mickey’s size, and exactly what he needed to burn off some tension. He wanted to hurt after, to feel the physical ache and forget the other ache, so he entered the TV room.

“Yo, shit for brains,” he announced to the room at large, figuring if Rebel didn’t respond someone would. Every head turned his way, and he felt a ripple of excitement spread throughout the inmates. This drama would be way more fucking exciting than anything that neanderthal found on the Home Shopping Channel.

Rebel’s freakishly pale eyes met his.

“Yup, I’m talking to you.” Mickey grinned meanly then tossed out a lame ass insult because he was too tired to even try, and this guy was a fucking idiot anyway. “Was talking to your momma last night though.”

They stared at each other for a couple beats, while Rebel scratched his bald, tattooed head.

Mickey sighed, waving a hand at the guy to help him along. “While she was sucking my dick.”

The complete ridiculousness of that statement was lost on Rebel, but he managed to get caught up with what the fuck was going on. Once the mental processing was complete, he let out a roar and charged at Mickey, who crouched slightly waiting for the 250 pounds to enter his personal space before he leaned forward, his shoulder taking the impact. Rebel gasped, face immediately turning red from lack of oxygen. Mickey had hit his target, the guy’s solar plexus.

It didn’t stop him from regrouping though, and his fist lashed out, a little haphazardly, but still making contact with Mickey’s jaw. He took the hit, not letting it interfere with what his own fists were doing. One landed squarely on Rebel’s pointy ass nose, and the other dropped low, connecting in the exact same spot his shoulder had just hit. The benefit of being little was the lack of square footage to attack, and he used that to duck the next blow.

While he got a certain joy out of tormenting the asshole, he wasn’t getting the bloody pounding he needed, so he shot off another mouthy remark, but this time to Rebel’s buddy who was watching the fight from his seat.

“Just gonna watch your prison bitch get his lights knocked out, Big Pete?”

Naturally, the double insult to Big Pete’s prowess and sexuality got the man to his feet.

“ _Puto,_ ” he shouted at Mickey. “Gump, motherfucker.”

“You can suck my dick since Rebel’s ma is busy,” he shouted back. “Prag.”

Mickey had a second of regret, wondering if maybe he’d gone too far calling this seven foot mouthbreather a prison fag. If he ended up in the infirmary, that would bring on the fucking heartache.

He never got a chance to do either because both of his arms were grabbed from behind and he was yanked from the TV room, heels dragging along the cement floor. As he struggled to get free and a lifetime of curse words flew from his mouth, a hand clamped over his lips and shut him up.

“Jesus, Rabbit, you’re gonna get yourself killed or sent up river,” Martinez hissed in his ear.

“Or fucking both,” Gator added.

Why the hell would they send him to the hole if he was dead, Mickey wanted to ask but Gator’s disgustingly moist palm covered his retort.

“What’s going on in that head of yours?” Gator continued. “Making a move on a member of the AB? Straight up stupid shit, man. Their only fucking code is to kill.”

Mickey tried to send his friend a death glare of his own, but Gator appeared more concerned with rehashing the twisted fucking Aryan Brotherhood’s ten commandments.

“If Reb wants you X’d, you’re done. They all ride together, Mick, you fucking know that.”

Martinez couldn’t resist adding his two cents. “That’s why he’s got control of the fucking remote. Room full of men itching to channel surf.”

Once they reached B tier, Gator removed his hand. “Gotta be quiet. That fucking inmate hater, Travers, is on watch, looking for a no good to turn out, and your rep runs deep, man.”

Mickey made a show of shrugging off their hands and straightening his jumpsuit, but the fight had left him. Watching his back was exhausting and the AB weren’t pussies. He had kept his distance in Max, but relaxed his own code since being in Min. The general consensus around here was keep your fucking head down and get out, but fuck sometimes it was harder than it seemed.

“Yeah,” he muttered.

While Martinez entered their cell, Gator threw an arm around Mickey's shoulders, smiling hugely. “Tonight’s the night, Mick, my friend.”

Mickey lifted a brow. “Proposing, G?”

“Indeed.” He leaned into Mickey’s ear. “Gator’s Artisanal Blend is ready for consumption.”

Dying of prison wine poisoning sounded like a good idea tonight. “That why you dragged my ass to your cell?”

“Marty’s gonna keep an eye out for the screws making rounds.”

Martinez returned. “Rooming with this motherfucker means I’m half cut on the daily. No sweat off my balls to tea-total one night.”

“Fuck it then. I’m down.”

"Hold up," Martinez said. "I'm supposed to give you this if you start picking fights."

He held out a pack of Big Red gum, but all Mickey could do was stare at the flame design on the package and try not to lose his shit. Martinez slipped into the front pocket of Mickey's jumpsuit then pulled a ratty paperback from his back pocket and leaned against the railing casually.

“Sometimes a guy’s gotta drown his sorrows,” Martinez offered, licking a finger as he located his page, and Mickey suspected he might end up talking to his goddamn _friends_.

“C’mon, Rabbit," Gator eventually said. "Let’s savor the grape.”

Nodding a thank you at Martinez, he followed Gator into his cell, tucking his Ian feels into the pocket next to that pack of gum and smiling a little at his boyfriend’s stupid ass sense of humor.

“Even any grapes in the shit, man?”

Gator pulled a black trash bag from his personal belongings locker under the bottom bunk. “Can’t give up all my secrets,” he explained, while tugging at the knotted strip of fabric securing the bag and immediately the cell filled with a cloyingly sweet stink and Mickey felt the familiar, but dormant, urge to drink his face off.

“Thanks for the washer hose, man,” Gator said, removing the stinger from the bag and storing the heating device inside one of his socks. “Good to have a man in laundry.”

“Sure,” Mickey replied, mildly interested in Gator’s elaborate set up. “You check with Julio about getting you trash bags? Probably has access to all kinds of stuff in sanitation.”

“Yeah, man. He’s on it.” He slid two paper cups from a stack, passing one to Mickey.

“Who you paying off when cells get tossed?”

“Fucking everyone,” Gator paused to shake his head. “But this shit is top shelf, get two books a quart. Triple the usual rate.”

“Where’d you learn to do all this?” He waved a hand at Gator’s elaborate system.

“First stint, I got locked up with a dude who was a chef on the outside. His specialty was called Rusty’s crackhead hollandaise sauce. The shit you can do with a packet of fucking mayo would rock your world, Mick.”

“Doubt it,” Mickey muttered, holding out his glass and watching it fill with a dark orange liquid that smelled like the worst hangover ever.

“Ate fucking well during that bid,” Gator continued his story as he filled his own glass and tucked the bag into his locker. “Learned shit too, man. How to cook with no fucking equipment and science shit like _ionization_. Crazy.”

He held out his cup for Mickey to tap with his own, then swirled it once before sipping and swishing. Mickey gave him a disbelieving look, but did the same thing, figuring he was in for a penny and all that shit.

It hit his tongue and he braced his stomach for impact, but it didn’t end up retaliating. Much.

“Well, shit,” he said and tossed back a larger mouthful. “It’s almost as good as two-buck chuck.”

Gator nodded, dark eyes happy as usual. “Rusty would be proud, man.”

“I’ll take a quart,” Mickey announced. “Make it two.”

“Don’t overdo it, Mick. It’s still fucking poison.”

“Sure,” Mickey agreed, forgetting he’d already learned this lesson the hard way and had Ian’s name on his chest as a reminder.


	12. Episode 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is another long chapter, so I’ll take Saturday off from posting. As well, you might recognize a few bits at the end of the chapter from the episode 6 filler I wrote last year. I chopped it up and included some of it as well as some of the deleted scenes we got in the DVD. However, those deleted scenes made no sense because of their clothing. Seriously, it seems like what we missed in episode 6 was the two of them trying on different outfits. LOL. See you Sunday.

**Sanitation**

[Watch “Ah, found it” courtesy of Tue](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UCmUJ5ITeiw)

**Warden’s Office**

The clink of the restraints around Mickey’s ankles echoed down each hallway and rang in his ears, sending reverberations throughout his tormented skull. He’d been to Warden Ashland’s office once before, when he’d arrived and held a few of the cards. Guzman and Fuentes’ trial dates had yet to be set, so Mickey hadn’t fulfilled his end of the bargain for the prosecution, nor had he completed the 36 months he’d been given for his first prison break. Now he faced a second prison break charge and couldn’t conceive of any universe in which Ashland would go easy on him.

His hair was still damp from the scrub down he’d endured. A scrubbing that had wiped away most of the poison in his system. They’d sprayed hot water at him for half a fucking hour, convinced he was going to infect the entire prison simply because he spent a few minutes in a trash can. As if he was dumb enough to climb into a bin filled with used needles and real toxic waste.

Instead, between picking Julio’s brain for how to counterfeit his way to retirement, he’d picked his cellie’s brain over how the prison sanitation system worked, figuring it had money making potential. Turns out there was more than a scam, there was a fucking escape route. This information was apparently planted in his brain just waiting for the right moment to blossom.

What’d he’d learned was that toxic waste was loosely patrolled because it was so disgusting that only an idiot would try to escape that way. Well, Mickey’s Momma didn’t raise no idiot, but she did raise a fucking fool.

A fool who spent the last two nights poisoning his central nervous system with fucking _Gator-Ade_ , tossing back a couple of liters of that prison hooch and wallowing in his neverending Ian Gallagher blues and apparently hatching his brilliant escape plan while three sheets to the wind.

The plan had seemed foolproof from the vantage point of the bottom of a jar of homemade wine.

Step one: wait for garbage pick up in laundry. Step two: get Old Man Stewie to distract the sanitation dude long enough for Mickey to hide in the bin. Step three: hang out in central sanitation until Jigsy arrived for his toxic waste shift then bribe/threaten/sweet talk him into agreeing to Mickey’s brilliant plan. Step four: empty the toxic waste bin, climb in, cover himself with laundry garbage and top it with a few of the least disgusting items from the toxic waste bin for realism’s sake. Step five: exit the building via Jigsy’s infirmary toxic waste run.

While Mickey’s sneakiness had been in full force, his common sense had taken a vacation. There was no actual plan beyond that, other than to show up on the Gallagher doorstep in his yellow jumpsuit and sweep his boyfriend off his feet. After Ian bitched his head off, he’d probably ship Mickey off to Mexico.

_Maybe he would’ve come this time._

None of that mattered now because he was dressed in the prison system’s version of a four piece suit, arms and legs secured with chains, while the warden prepared to add years to his sentence.

Turns out his Momma had raised an idiot.

[Watch “That makes us all done here, huh?” courtesy of Tue](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZT1N8OZHUdw)

Raymond stood at his cell door watching Mickey toss around the shit he'd collected over the year. If he let himself think too hard about it, the fact that he'd recently turned 26 and didn't even have a full bar of fucking soap to his name might be depressing.

Instead he filled half a trash bag with garbage, put his clean, folded linen on Julio's bunk along with one stick of Big Red, scooped up his library books and followed Raymond's tight ass down the metal stairs one last time.

They were rushing him through a release process that generally took weeks, but when the Warden wants to throw you to the wolves, suddenly paperwork ain't that important. Even though this was exactly what he wanted, he also wanted a fucking moment to catch his breath and get some of that goddamn closure Ian read about in one of his pussy books.

"Hey, boss."

Raymond slowed his determined steps enough to give Mickey an expectant look, but one that clearly said don't fucking annoy me.

Mickey scrubbed his thumbnail across his forehead, ducking his chin a little and adjusting the books under his arm. Maintenance was on their way to the library and he knew that Gator and Martinez would be there right now.

“Nothing,” he muttered.

Some of Ian’s belief that he was more than just a fucking prisoner must have rubbed off on him if he thought that a CO was going to go out of his way to do an inmate a damn favor.

The familiar buzz and clang of a security door led them out of his unit and down the hallway that adjoined the Maintenance and Education wings. Raymond was clearly in a hurry to get rid of him if his pace was any indication. Knowing this would be the last time he made this trek took away some of the sting of not being able to say good-bye to his buddies.

Just as they came to the intersection of hallways, the door to Maintenance opened and CO Armstrong stepped out followed by Gator in his paint splattered overalls. Mickey slowed his step, unable to stop the stupid smile on his face, especially when Martinez joined him in the doorway.

As he passed by, Mickey brought his closed fist down on top of each man’s. One knock down and one back up, then turned the corner to the Library.

"Uh, thanks."

Raymond only nodded.

**EmergeVac Van**

[Watch “Pregnant lady, she needs help” courtesy of Tue](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JzBsFzakLII)

**Freeway**

[Watch “The fuck you chasing my bus for?” courtesy of Tue](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RmLFn9YmFcg)

“You gotta rethink your fucking meet ‘n greet, man,” Mickey suggested as he slid into the passenger seat of Larry’s sedan. “‘Specially when your parolee is a wanted man.”

“Yes,” Larry said, voice heavy and serious now. “I’ve been through your file with a fine-tooth comb, Mr. Milkovich. Oh, can I call you Mikhailo?”

“Fuck no,” he scowled at his new best friend even though the guy pronounced his name properly. “Mickey.”

“Well, _Mickey_ , my job is to help you get you set up for success while you wait to bear witness at the trial. I commend you on having civic pride, I might add.”

“Sure, I’m an upstanding citizen.”

Larry smiled at him as he backed out of the service road. “While your criminal record might suggest otherwise, it’s my job to find the potential in my charges.”

“Are you for real, man?”

“It’s Larry and you can pinch me if you feel you might be hallucinating.” He chuckled at his joke, but Mickey was fucking tempted. No way was he going to be this lucky to get someone who actually felt invested in his future. He’d just wait for the other shoe to drop. On his fucking head.

But it didn't stop him from letting out a sigh of relief, preferring this to the Chicago bound bus that passed by Beckman every day picking up new releases.

As the South Side came into view, he ignored the swirl of emotion the sights stirred up. The softball field in Metcalfe Park where he might have pissed on one of the bases, Petey’s Garage where he’d lost his virginity, the I94 underpass where he’d definitely banged Gallagher.

When they passed the Kash and Grab, Mickey bit into his bottom lip hard enough to taste blood. He was home. His heart beat so fucking hard, he imagined Larry fucking Seaver having to give him CPR.

“We’ll have you at Zemansky Ave in a snap,” Larry said, adding a finger snap in case Mickey was too stupid to get the reference without a visual.

He’d rather go back to prison than to that house though. “No,” Mickey said firmly. “North Wallace.”

“Your release papers list 1955 Zemansky Avenue as your home base.”

“ _Larry_ ,” he said, turning to give the man his full attention, “that house is the fucking reason I’ve got a rap sheet that probably took you all day to read. If I go back there, you might as well send me straight to jail with passing fucking GO.”

Larry nodded slowly, exuding sincerity and sympathy. "In addition to supporting you through your reintegration into society, I'm available for emotional support. In fact," he paused to smile hugely at Mickey while keeping one eye on the road, "it's my favorite part of the job!"

"Right," Mickey mumbled, certain he was being punked by the Chicago Penal System.

"I've been reading up on some excellent methods for expressing our feelings, such as play therapy." He lifted his big ass hand off the steering wheel, shaping it into some sort of finger puppet that Mickey was terrified he'd start using to communicate.

“That's great, Larry. Since we’re in this together,” Mickey paused for emphasis. "You wouldn't want me to relapse or whatever."

“Certainly not. I would consider myself a failure as your parole office." His puppet relaxed back to the wheel, and Mickey's shoulders relaxed to their usual level of tension. "Do you have an alternative location in mind, son?”

“Wallace.”

“Mr. Gallagher’s home?”

“How’d you know that?” Mickey felt a niggling of dread.

“Under the Unified Code of Corrections 730, section--”

“Can you just get to the point?” Mickey flopped back in his seat as that metaphorical shoe hit him right in the heart.

“The parolee shall not associate with persons who have criminal records.”

Mickey felt the waves of defeat start to pull him under because what the fuck had he expected? A goddamn parade welcoming home and into Ian’s bed where he could spend the rest of his fucking life.

“I’ll just drop you at the corner here.” Larry pulled the sedan to the curb in front of his old elementary school. They’d updated the playset since he’d last set foot in the playground, and for some reason he was offended by that. “Since I can’t _officially_ drop you at the Gallagher house until I’ve completed the paperwork, you’ll have to make it by foot.”

Mickey returned his attention to Larry and nodded once, in complete confusion.

“If you’d’ve let me finish, I would have gotten to subsection...well, the details don’t matter, but it states that under certain circumstances, the Officer in charge of the parolee--me--may deem it in the best interest to have contact with a convicted felon if said felon is in good standing with the courts.” He offered Mickey that sincere and sympathetic smile again. “I’ll start the paperwork immediately.”

Mickey tugged at the door handle, unsure what had just happened but not sticking around to ask questions.

“Good day, Mickey. My number is on your release papers. Please send me a contact number before the end of the day, so we can arrange your employment,” Larry said as Mickey slid out of his seat. “I think I have the perfect job for you.”

As he jogged across the street, Larry’s voice carried through the open car window.

“Mickey!” he yelled, and Mickey reluctantly stopped to look over his shoulder, half expecting to see a sock puppet staring back at him. “How do you feel about pastels?”

“Whatever...Lar.”

He gave Mickey the thumbs up before pulling away from the curb, leaving one stunned Milkovich on the corner of Wallace and 45th, two blocks from _home_.

**Gallagher House**

Ian bounded up the front steps, nodding vaguely at the caravan of Mexicans set up in front of his family home. After a week of seeing them everywhere from his front yard to his bathroom, they were starting to feel like honorary Gallaghers.

He felt damn good. Helping that pregnant lady was the right thing to do. With vague thoughts of standing up to Paula swirling around his head, he went straight to his room ignoring the nice ladies who tried to feed him on his way up through the house. It was nearly 5:00 and Mickey might call after his laundry shift. It had been two days since they’d spoken, so he wanted to be ready.

Their last conversation had been tense, but Ian needed to know that he could visit, and soon. Only Mick had access to that information and he got mad every time Ian brought it up, so maybe he needed to stop asking. He had tried to apologize, but Mickey had just told him he was going to watch fucking TV.

Two days ago, for fuck’s sake. According to Google, they were in the adjustment phase of coping with a loved one in prison, and they were supposed to be honest about how they felt. But Mickey kept shutting Ian down, getting annoyed and gruff, and Ian hated that their nine and a half minutes were spent snapping at each other. The website had linked to some emotional intelligence quizzes that he was going to do on Mickey's behalf if the guy didn't start talking about shit.

Feeling sure he’d contact Ian today though, he tossed the oversized EmergeVac shirt in the laundry bin, wondering if he could ask Yolanda for a second so he didn’t have to wash it before each shift. Even though the last time was because Fred had unloaded a quart of breastmilk on Ian’s shirt after--

[Watch “Come here” courtesy of Tue ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=W5NZvt2xKoQ)

Ian slid his hands down Mickey’s chest, slowly feeling the familiar shape and warmth through the clothing he’d obviously been given by the prison. He stopped the progress when his hands rested on Mickey’s, where they tugged at Ian’s belt buckle.

“Hey,” Ian panted, obscenely turned on by the feel of his belt whizzing through the loops of his khakis. “ _Jesus_. Just tell me you really got out legally.”

“Yes, Gallagher, you think I’d plan another escape?”

Ian narrowed his eyes, suspiciously. “Kinda.”

“Well, I didn’t so gimme your dick as a reward.”

Instead of dick, Ian gave him another full-on kiss, sucking on that bottom lip like it had been years not days since he’d last tasted it. “Okay,” he breathed when they parted. “It’s all yours.”

Mickey nodded once, then dropped to his knees, yanking open the button on Ian’s pants with enough force to nearly knock him over.

“ _Oh!_ ”

Smirking, Mickey released Ian from his boxers, and his dick slid along the soft bottom lip that he had just been sucking on.

“ _Oh..._ ”

He watched himself disappear into Mickey’s mouth, reaching out a hand for the bunk bed behind him, certain that his legs weren’t going to survive the slide back up. Especially when Mickey’s tongue made the trip too. Ian’s skin buzzed and his mouth went dry.

“ _Ohhhh…_ ”

With his hand wrapped around the base, Mickey pulled his mouth off to glare up at Ian. “Don’t fucking hold back, man. Give it to me.”

“ _Ahh,_ ” Ian moaned, dick so deep in Mickey’s mouth now that both knees weakened. His free hand grasped the dark hair, missing the feel of it almost as much as the feel of his mouth. Their eyes met and the fire in Mickey’s eyes burned like blue gems.

“Fuck, I love you,” Ian vowed, then tightened his hand on the back of Mickey’s head while his hips snapped forward, giving Mickey exactly what he wanted.

Color bloomed on his cheeks as he tried to keep up with Ian’s movements, but Ian dug his fingers into Mickey’s skull, holding him in place and let himself go, knowing Mickey would stop him if he couldn’t take it.

The thought that they were finally free to do this whenever the fuck they wanted added to the intensity, and he felt his abs constrict. Mickey’s fingers fanned across his belly, giving Ian the push he needed.

“Ready?” he breathed, feeling the fingers on his belly reach up to twist one of Ian’s nipples. Hard.

“FUCK!” he cursed and shot down Mickey’s throat.

A few seconds later, his dick rested against Mickey’s chin and a chuckle penetrated the roaring in Ian’s ears. Opening his eyes, Ian looked down at his man, who slowly licked his lips as he arranged Ian’s boxers. Tenderly, Ian ran a thumb under the scrape on Mickey’s cheekbone.

“Mick,” he said softly. “Another wound to clean up? I’ve lost count how many.”

"Been preparing you for your EMT job all these years.”

Ian liked that idea, that Mickey was the reason he had taken that career path. “What’d you do this time?”

“Road rash.” Ian tipped his chin to the left to get a better look at the two scratches. “I’ll tell you all about it after you suck my dick.”

“Now?”

“Yeah, now. My dick ain’t getting any younger, Gallagher.”

Laughing, Ian grabbed him by the front of his grey sweatshirt, yanking him to his feet, and covering his lips in aggressive kisses, while he worked the vest over his shoulders, letting it fall to the floor. The sweatshirt fell next, leaving him bare chested, nipples hard with excitement. Ian wanted to lick them.

Instead he gave one hard shove to the warm expanse of his chest, and Mickey bounced as his back hit the single bed behind him. Ian spread Mickey’s jean covered legs wider than necessary so he could kneel between them, tracing the outline of his hard-on with firm fingers as his other hand made a path over his belly and chest, stopping when it was able to shape around his throat.

Mickey’s chest rose rapidly in anticipation, and Ian’s fingers tightened just enough to whet his appetite for more. That kind of thing would have to wait. Unable to resist touching those lips which were puffy from sucking his cock, Ian leaned down to kiss him while his fingers tightened a little more, feeling his Adam’s apple convulse against his palm.

When he felt warm hands cup his cheeks, Ian opened his eyes to find Mickey watching him and he smiled softly, feeling fucking euphoric. “Welcome home, Mick.”

He grasped the back of Mickey’s hands, gently disengaging them from his face, so he could push up to his knees and watch tattooed fingers slide down his bare chest before falling to the twin mattress. Ian let his eyes roam slowly over Mickey’s body, over the defined shoulders and rapid rise and fall of his chest to the clear outline of his cock and the way his jeans pulled tight around his thighs.

Bending down to the soft skin of his belly, Ian dropped a few kisses there while popping the button of his jeans and spreading the material. He swiped his tongue over the wet spot on his boxers, leaving it even wetter.

Unlike Mickey, Ian wasn’t going to give up any control over how this went down though. Once Mickey was free and in his mouth, he sunk his fingers into his hip bones, tightening them until he felt the flesh give a little. He bobbed his head quickly, listening for Mickey’s tell, the catch in the back of his throat that meant he was losing control.

Then Ian slowed his pace, dragging out each movement until he felt pressure against his fingers as Mickey tried to move his hips.

Ian forced him to endure two more slow trips, before releasing Mickey’s hips so he could fuck up in Ian’s mouth, making Ian moaned happily. He egged him on with the indecent noises coming from his mouth, both of them getting louder when his fingers dove into Ian’s hair. God, he planned to do this every fucking day until he died.

And Mickey didn’t even bother letting him know to expect his come. He knew Ian wanted.

Watching Mickey nearly fall asleep, Ian tucked him back into his boxers, then braced a hand on either side of Mickey’s head, hovering until Mickey opened his tired eyes. He started to lower his body, deciding he wanted a post-orgasm make out session because there was nothing stopping them now. His hands were itching to squeeze some of that flesh as the bedroom door opened and Ian froze midway to his target.

“ _¡Dios mío!_ ”

They turned surprised faces toward the same middle-aged lady who had spent the week shoving a tamale into Ian’s hand each time he passed through the kitchen.

" _Mil disculpas,_ ” she whispered, hand on her cheek in horror.

Ian knew an apology when he heard one, and he also knew a curse when he heard one.

“ _Jesucristo,_ ” Mickey shouted. The woman crossed herself twice before slamming the door on Ian’s howls of laughter. "Why you cackling, Gallagher?"

“I was going to tell her how hot you are, but I’m sure she could see that for herself,” Ian said between snickers.

“Good one.” Mickey’s face didn’t agree, so Ian dug his fingers into the sides of his rib cage, squeezing until Mickey laughed. “Stop it, man.”

“No.” Ian dropped his chest down to Mickey’s, pinning him with his weight and wiggled his fingers harder, getting another laugh.

“Gonna pay for that shit.”

Ian just snorted in contempt, then found himself flat on the bedroom floor, Mickey on top of him. They tussled for a few more minutes, laughing the whole time. Eventually, they broke apart, sighing as they stared up at the ceiling.

“Are we ever gonna get any fucking privacy?”

Ian turned on his side, eyes on the angry scratches along Mickey’s face. “I’ll figure something out. First, we need to clean up your face.”

“Nah, I’m starving, Ian. Haven’t had a tamale in a year.”

That statement for all its simplicity shook Ian with the realization. “They’re _Mexicans_ ,” he whispered.

“Just figuring that out, Einstein?”

“Shit,” Ian said absently. “You don’t think they could be cartel, do you?”

“Well, that old woman definitely had a shifty look about her.”

Ian smacked his gut. “I mean they all seem like regular people.”

“Could be a deep cover operation.”

The grin on Mickey’s face relaxed the tension that had started to form in Ian’s shoulders. “Okay, so probably not then.”

Mickey shrugged and Ian flipped onto his back. “Why are you out? And don’t feed me another bullshit line about compassionate release.”

“Ashland says the prosecution appreciates all my help.”

“What help?” Ian demanded, tension returning full force. “You haven’t been to court yet!”

“Dunno. Probably stirring the pot.”

“And using you as the fucking spoon?”

Mickey nodded, approvingly. “Nice one.”

But Ian still pouted. “Why didn’t you call me to pick you up today?”

“In what?”

“Debs has a beater.”

“Wanted to get out before the Warden changed his fucking mind.” Their fingers connected lightly between them, and Mickey’s thumb moved against Ian’s palm. “But it would’ve been hot to walk through those prison gates and see you leaning against a car waiting for me.”

“ _Yeah_ , and you could’ve given Raymond, Daniels and Armstrong the bird then shouted fuck you, fuck you--”

“And especially fuck you,” Mickey laughed and Ian tightened his fingers. “You know that day you and Mandy picked me up?”

Ian turned his head to see his profile, the familiar line of his nose and curve of his lower lip. “What about it?”

“If I hadn’t been hiding what got me off, I would’ve jumped your fucking bones right in front of the guards and my sister. Couldn’t believe that Ian fucking Gallagher had finally grown up. _Jesus_.”

“Ugh,” Ian groaned, adding that to his long list of regrets. “Wait! Would you have jumped my bones today if I’d picked you up from Beckman?”

“ _Mm_ ,” Mickey hummed, while they both pictured Ian stepping away from the car as Mickey exited the electronic gate. The bright sunshine high above their heads as their eyes met and Mickey walked straight into his waiting arms.

“Goddamn it.” Tossing an arm over his eyes, Ian moaned feeling acutely the loss of something that would have immediately become a favorite memory. “Why are we always denied this shit?”

“Next time.”

“There better not be a next time! I’ll handcuff you to that bed, I swear to God.”

Mickey lifted his arms, exposing his wrists to Ian and flicking his eyebrows. "Whatcha waitin' for,” he smirked, voice dipping low with the cockiness that had sealed Ian’s fate before he’d barely passed the threshold into puberty.

Grabbing those wrists tight in his hands, Ian rolled on top of his sexy boyfriend and finally got that post-orgasm make out session.

[Watch “You Milkoviches are legendary” courtesy of Tue](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oKBZRiRCiuA)

Mickey paced a new pattern in the Gallagher’s shitty living room carpet, while waiting for Ian to get back from the bullshit ride he’d gone on with that bitch, Paula. It had been nearly two hours since he’d walked out the door, and Mickey had no way to communicate with him, since the prosecutor in charge of the El Chapo case had taken his iPhone into evidence last year.

Not knowing exactly how serious this shit was with the parole officer had Mickey on edge, but he tried to chill the fuck out. He’d given each Mexican a Milkovich style stare, double checking they weren’t in fact sent by any drug lords to slit his throat, before eating his way through most of the leftover tamales that brought back way too many memories.

After filling up on Mexican food, he’d alternated between asking Lip if he’d heard from Ian and watching him try to soothe his kid whenever it squawked. When his baby mama had stormed out of the house earlier, clearly dressed for a night on the fucking town, Mickey had escaped to the kitchen, where he’d made a couple new pals, Jorge and Angel, who played a mean game of La Viuda.

Eventually, he wandered out to the front step to smoke a stick of cheap Mexican tobacco that he’d bought off one of the ancient dudes roaming the place.

Despite the low-level worry over Ian, he sat on the top step, enjoying the familiar sounds of home, cars honking, sirens wailing. The moon was almost full and competed with the handful of street lights. A cool breeze caressed his shoulders, which were bared to the night since he was only wearing Ian’s tank top.

He hadn’t been in touch with Sandy yet, and briefly considered calling her up so she could bring him some herb, but decided not to push his luck on the first night. He’d track her down tomorrow and find out if the product he’d invested in weeks ago had made it across the border. His thoughts were interrupted by Shirley Temple and her brat walking hand in hand toward the house.

“Mickey!” Debbie squawked as the gate banged shut behind her. “ _Oh my god_.”

Her footsteps slowed, and the little redhead hanging off her arm looked between them curiously, but Mickey figured one lone dude sitting on the front step couldn’t really be a surprise when you lived in the Gallagher zoo.

Mickey continued to puff on his rollie, blowing smoke into the night sky and leaning heavily against the railing.

“Where’s Ian?” she asked.

“With his PO.”

“Isn’t it kind of late for a PO visit?”

“Yup.”

“Shit,” she hissed, getting that this wasn’t any kind of scheduled appointment. “Did he figure out what to do about the fraud bullshit?”

“Guess we’ll find out when he gets back.”

She nodded a few times, playing nervously with the kid’s hand until she yanked it out of her mother’s grip. “ _Ouch_ ,” she yelped.

Debbie patted her hair then nudged her gently toward the house. “Why don’t you go ask one of those nice ladies to pour you a glass of milk. I’ll be right in.”

The kid skipped happily up a few steps, but paused when she reached Mickey’s step. “They talk funny, Mama.”

“It’s called Spanish, Franny.”

“Oh,” she smiled down at Mickey. “Are you Uncle Ian’s boyfriend?”

Mickey scraped a nail along his forehead as he tried to process how this rugrat knew that. “Uh, yeah.”

“He showed me pictures on his phone,” she announced, hopping up two more steps.

“Hey, kid,” Mickey said and she looked back at him. “Tell the lady _vaso de leche, por favor_.”

She looked at him, head tilted as she studied him.

“It means you want a glass of milk, please. In the funny language.”

Her face lit up, and Mickey repeated it.

“ _Vaso de leche, por favor_ ,” she said clearly.

“Not bad, kid.” He gave her an impressed nod since it had taken him six months to come close to rolling his r’s with any finesse.

She chanted it all the way up the stairs and into the house, door slamming loudly behind her, and Mickey went back to his cigarette, inhaling as he waited to see what Ian’s little sister had on her mind.

“Um, Mickey, I wanted to say that when you…”

Mickey flicked his eyebrows at her, aggressively encouraging her to spit it out, but she appeared to be tongue-tied, which wasn’t the impression he had of her.

“What happened to the annoying little shit who barged into my place whenever she fucking felt like it telling me what to do?” he asked casually. “You got something to say then say it.”

“I’m fucking sorry I bailed on you!” she shouted, hands on hips, eyes stormy. That looked more like the girl he remembered.

“We’re cool,” he said.

She didn’t seem to hear him. “I was so scared that I’d get arrested too. I fucking chickened out.”

After grinding his smoke into the step with his boot, he stood up, towering over her from his perch on the steps. “Your kid’s waiting for you, and I’m getting a little worried that I might need to send out a search party for your brother.”

He took the last few steps and opened the front door, then stepped aside so she could enter the house first. She watched him closely as she make her way up the steps, but like a true Gallagher, she didn’t take the olive branch and move the fuck on.

“I should’ve come forward.”

“Solid plan. Then I would’ve had to bust your stupid ass outta the joint too.”

Her posture softened a little. “Did you escape this time?”

“Yeah, they’ll never think to look for me here.”

A smile tried to take shape on her lips, and Mickey waved an impatient hand toward the doorway. She finally listened and disappeared in the house.

Fucking Gallaghers.

[Watch “You seen Ian?” courtesy of Tue](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VHYd2atvUwE)

**Unknown Location**

[Watch “I’ll do whatever you say” courtesy of Tue](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bUhjf7fAJvs)

**Gallagher House**

Mickey still couldn’t get the image out of his head of Paula waving a goddamn Glock in their faces and demanding Ian leave with her. He’d tried to step in and let the crooked PO know Ian was under his protection, but Gallagher had given him the “I can handle this, Mick” look and Mickey had reluctantly let him leave.

Now it was past midnight, and no way he’d let Ian leave with her again. That’s not how shit worked between them anymore. He was gonna make damn sure Ian knew that too. If he ever got his ass home, that is.

Tossing the remainder of his fourth tamale on the plate, he pulled open the back door to have another smoke and found Ian standing there, eyes a little wild, sweat stains on his black t-shirt.

“The fuck, Ian?”

They stared at each other for a moment, the kitchen light casting shadows over Ian’s pale face. For a moment, Mickey was petrified that Ian would actually answer the question. Like an omen or some shit, foreshadowing yet another obstacle in their life together. Whatever had happened would fuck shit up for them, and he hadn’t even been out of the joint 24 hours. The thought tried to defeat Mickey, but he shook it off.

“Get the fuck inside, man.” He wrapped a hand around Ian’s wrist, pulling him into the kitchen and slamming the door, then flicking the lock as a safety measure. “What did that bitch do? I’m gonna kill her.”

“NO!”

Mickey flinched at the sound, stepping back in surprise. “Not literally, for fuck’s sake.”

“Just no, Mick, fuck.” Ian pushed past him, stopping at the sink to run the cold water. He splashed some onto his face before cupping his hands to scoop some into his mouth.

Frowning, Mickey grabbed a glass from the cupboard and gently pushed Ian out of the way, so he could fill it. Once the glass was in Ian’s hand, Mickey slid his body between Ian’s and the sink ledge.

“What the hell happened?”

“Mickey…” That was the voice of an Ian who was retreating from the conversation.

“Don’t fucking Mickey me, man.” No way was this conversation ending before he had got everything out of Ian, but Ian turned away trying to retreat further.

“I’m…scared to…”

“Scared to what?” Mickey wound his hand in the front of Ian’s t-shirt, letting some of his frustration out on the soft material. “Scared to tell me what went down tonight?”

“Yeah. I guess that’s what I’m saying.”

He yanked a little on the t-shirt to bring Ian’s face closer to his. “Fuck does that mean?”

“It means you’re gonna be pissed.”

“I’m already pissed, Ian.”

“More pissed,” Ian said, sounding defeated, eyes all sad and shit. “Like fucking furious.”

“You better tell me what the fuck happened right fucking now, man.”

“See!” Ian yanked his shirt out of Mickey grip and stepped back. Mickey followed, giving up no ground.

“See what? You haven’t told me shit, Gallagher.”

“And you’re fucking mad already.”

“I’m mad because you aren’t telling me.”

“You were ready to kill Paula before I even told you what happened.”

“Jesus Christ, Ian.”

“Stop, Mickey, _please_.”

They were both hissing at each other, and needed to keep it the fuck down so the whole Gallagher tribe didn’t join them in the kitchen. Mickey released a huff of air to calm himself enough to nod at Ian then slip a hand round the back of his neck, bringing their lips together briefly.

“Okay, okay.” He nodded in acknowledgement that his anger wasn’t helping the issue. “You worried I’m gonna end up back in the can for attempted murder?”

“Of course, I am.” Ian’s eyes widened in disbelief like the question was foolish.

“Fine, fuck,” he began, holding up his right hand. “I swear to you I won’t lay a hand on the fucking cunt.”

“Jesus, Mick,” Ian rolled his eyes. “Nor will you get someone else to lay a hand on her.”

Mickey pressed his lips together because no way he’d agree with that bullshit statement.

“Then I’m not telling you.” Ian pressed his lips together as well.

“Fuck you.”

Ian stepped out of Mickey’s arms, moving toward the stairs wearily. Mickey felt like shit for pushing him on this, especially tonight. “I’ll fucking promise, Ian, as long as she doesn’t hurt you.”

Apparently unimpressed with that agreement, Ian didn’t turn to look at Mickey. “I need a shower.”

“Not until you fucking spill it,” Mickey demanded, stepping in front of Ian. “Not being left in the dark while you clean your privates.”

Ian’s face tightened in response to that.

“The fuck, Ian! Did she touch your privates?” Mickey was going to fucking kill her. He could feel his lip curl back in rage, and Ian’s shoulders sagged for the tenth time since he returned home. “Sorry, I promise not to strangle her with my bare hands and watch her die a slow painful—I promise, okay?”

“I need a fucking shower, Mickey!”

“Shit, okay, let’s get you upstairs,” Mickey said linking his fingers with Ian’s as they started up the stairs. “You can tell me while you clean up.”

Mickey was prepared to tear the bathroom door off its hinges if anyone was in it, but the door was partly ajar, the crappy overhead light turned off. That was mildly disappointing as having someone to confront would be a welcome distraction from his murderous intentions.

While Ian pulled his shirt over his head, Mickey twisted the knobs adjusting the water. A wave of déjà vu hit him, or maybe just a simple memory of the many times he’d done this before, and the familiar sensation of being home. Not his home exactly, but just the feeling of being home.

He glanced at Ian, thinking maybe he would share that thought with the guy and try to lighten the mood, but he was pushing his jeans down his long legs, and Mickey saw that he wasn’t wearing any underwear. His blood immediately began to boil as scenarios played out in his mind. How the fuck was he supposed to not kill Paula now?

The slight tremor in Ian’s hands stopped his thoughts. That’s how he was supposed to stop himself. For Ian. They didn’t need to go down that road again. The goal was to stay the fuck out of the joint for the rest of their damn lives.

“Come on,” he whispered, waving Ian toward the shower. As he stepped under the spray, Mickey closed the shower curtain part way, leaning his shoulder against the tiled wall near the sink and watched Ian for a moment. He simply stood under the water, letting the weak pressure hit his scalp and shoulders.

When he finally opened his eyes, he explained. “She tied me to a chair and put some raw meat on my dick then threatened to let her rabid fucking German Shepherd eat it if I ever pulled my Mother Teresa shit again.”

Mickey pushed away from the wall as another wave of adrenaline hit his system. He paced once to the toilet, kicking the porcelain hard enough to make him cringe before returning to Ian, who was turning off the water. His back was bent, the skin littered with goosebumps. Mickey returned to the toilet where a towel hung. He sniffed it and decided it would have to do.

Ian stood in the middle of the tub, shivering slightly and waiting for Mickey’s response. Passing him the towel, Mickey organized his thoughts rather than spew the venom building in his chest. “No more Mother Teresa, right?”

Ian’s hands stopped drying his body. “What? You think I’m gonna let someone die on the fucking street while in childbirth to save my balls?”

“No,” Mickey said calmly while silently thinking yes. “You’re gonna call 911 like a good citizen.”

The towel resumed its attempt to rub the skin off Ian’s body as he actively ignored Mickey.

“Ian. Don’t fucking ignore me.”

The towel hit Mickey square in the chest, and he shook his head in frustration. “911,” he repeated firmly then tossed the towel back at Ian. “Dry your hair while I grab you some sweats.”

He took those moments of pawing through Ian’s drawer to temper his anger, to stop the unreasonable need for retaliation, remembering telling Ian that you get better results by being smart not by being a fucking hothead. Time to take his own fucking advice for a change. He wasn’t going to let his irrational feelings for Ian cloud his judgment. Again.

By the time he returned to the bathroom, Ian was dry, hair sticking out in odd angles from the quick scrub of the towel. Mickey pressed the worn gray sweat pants and white tank top into Ian’s hands, then ran his fingers through the red hair, patting it into place.

“There,” he murmured.

A little life returned to Ian’s face. “I’m not a baby,” he teased.

“No, you’re a big boy,” Mickey teased back. “Get your ass dressed. I’ll grab you a tamale and meet you in bed.”

Ian dug his fingers into Mickey’s side, holding him in place. “We need to clean up your face.”

“I’m okay, man. Tomorrow.”

“Now,” Ian snapped, sending Mickey’s eyebrows into his hairline.

“Sure, okay,” he agreed.

“Grab the first aid stuff from the top shelf behind you.” Ian pulled on his sweats and tank, stuffing his feet into an old pair of slippers next to the tub. “Sit.”

He pushed Mickey down to the toilet seat before bending in close to examine the scrapes on his cheekbone and forehead.

“What’s the verdict, Doc? Am I gonna live?” When that got no response, he added, “Might need mouth to dick resuscitation,” which got a small smile. "If you can handle what I'm packin' that is."

“I handled it just fine earlier today." Ian dabbed a tissue with some disinfectant and Mickey braced himself for the burn before shrugging.

"Seem to recall a fair bit of gagging, man."

"Ha! Cause you were shoving it down my fucking throat."

Biting his lip, Mickey glanced up, putting on his innocent face. "It's okay, man. Not everyone’s built to take it. I'd be happy to give you some lessons." He tapped the sweat material directly in front of his face since he wasn't going to waste a chance to acknowledge what Ian was packing.

A grin played at the corners of Ian's lips as he reapplied the wet tissue to Mickey’s cheekbone. Quiet settled for a moment as they enjoyed the familiarity of fucking with each other over their junk. Some things actually didn't change even if time tried to force them.

“I know I won’t like the answer, but what happened?” Ian eventually asked, flipping open a tube of something that smelled like a hospital.

“Maybe I rescued a cat from a tree. Ever think of that?” Hissing when Ian applied it to his cheekbone. “Sorta jumped from the bus on the way into town.”

“Right,” Ian sniffed, fingers moving onto Mickey’s forehead. “You jumped out of a moving vehicle. That’s great.”

“A car was following,” he explained, looking up at Ian’s pinched face. “Suspicious as shit.”

Ian stopped his ministrations to look at him.

“Turned out to be my PO, wanting to give me a fucking ride.”

“Seriously?” Ian asked. “Do Gooder Larry?”

“Yeah, the guy’s a fucking psycho.”

"Count your blessings, man. You got a ride. Could be a lot worse."

" _Worse?_ " Mickey pulled back to watch Ian's reaction. He needed to get this damn idiot to stop focusing on Paula's bullshit or he was going to make himself sick. "Guy made me talk about feelings. The whole ride! He basically offered me a sock puppet, Ian. A fucking sock puppet."

Ian folded a new tissue. "You wanna trade? Let me know."

"Oh please. So you got a corrupt PO, man, big deal," Mickey countered. If he had to shove his point into Ian's head, then so be it. "She sounds fun."

He shot a quick glance at Ian's pissy face.

"It's not fucking fun, Mickey."

"That's cause you're a pussy... _owww_!" His head snapped back as Ian's fingers tightened in his hair and the disinfectant stung his cheek. "Look, it's two years. Two years _not_ in fucking prison, so just do the time. Try not to whine about it." He was about to make some whining noises when one of the old Mexican dudes appeared at the doorway.

" _Perdóname_."

"What the fuck does--" Mickey paused when the guy scurried away.

"I think it means excuse me," Ian offered, pressing the goddamn stinging tissue into the road rash on his palm.

"Well, no shit, Ian. Remember when I lived in fucking Mexico?" He swore sometimes he was surrounded by idiots as well as half the Mexican nation. "Are we sure these Mexicans are who they say they are?"

Ian tossed the tissues in the trash and closed the lid on the tube of disinfectant. "I thought we agreed they make tamales, Mickey, that's it."

They sure as shit didn’t look like cartel assassins, but what were the odds that a caravan of Mexicans would be on Gallagher's doorstep the moment Mickey got released? That shit only happened on fucking TV.

"Hey, stop being a pussy, worrying about nothing," Ian said, dropping a single kiss to the top of Mickey’s head.

“ _Touché_.” Mickey stood up, pushing Ian out of the bathroom and toward the bedroom. “Speaking of tamales.”

“It’s too late for you to be eating Mickey.”

Ignoring Ian, he guided him toward the goddamn single bed. “I was stress eating the whole fucking time you were gone, man. It’s you who needs to eat.”

After watching Ian flop down on the bed, he made his way through the still quiet house to the kitchen and the containers of tamales. As the timer on the microwave counted down, the Milkovich mantra, fucked for life, replayed in his head. He wasn’t even home for a day and already shit was starting up. As if the cartel bullshit wasn’t enough of a headache, now they had to deal with Ian’s conscience, which was a recipe for fucking disaster as far the bipolar was concerned.

Mickey's job was to keep Ian from losing his shit, but how long until they hit a snag that tore them apart? He tried to ignore that question, but it was as engraved on his body as deeply as each one of his physical scars. It might be inevitable, but it was happening today. They got one day, goddamn it.

When he entered the boys’ bedroom with the steaming Mexican wrap, Ian was sitting with his back pressed to the wall, reminding Mickey of their endless rounds of bickering in jail and how Ian always ended up in this position on the top bunk. Knees pulled close to his chest, arms wrapped around them, face stony.

It had the effect in jail of pissing Mickey off further because he always assumed Ian was pouting. Now he realized that Ian was protecting himself in the only way he could, by retreating into himself. It made Mickey sad because Ian had retreated from him too many times, and he wasn’t letting that shit happen again.

"You know," he began. "I’m starting to think maybe these Mexicans really only make tamales because this shit is good." He took a big bite to make his point, but his eyes stayed on Ian as he dropped down to the edge of the bed. "Come on, man. It's just a dog. Didn't even bite you."

“It was close," he sighed. "I was just scared. What happens next time, ya know? And why is there always something?”

Those sentiments were eerily similar to the ones Mickey had just had in the kitchen, and he knew it was time for Ian to get some perspective. No shit, there was always going to be something. The sooner he accepted that the fucking better.

"Look, man," he began, giving Ian a look over his shoulder. "I'm the one with the cartel after me. If anybody should be crying, it's me. I'm considering getting plastic surgery on my face just so I can leave this house."

With a sigh, Ian seemed to finally let it go, and the mood shifted. "Well...if you go the surgery route," he grinned at Mickey, sliding forward to the edge of the bed. "Think they could get you a penile enhancement?"

"Oh, that's cute," he teased, grabbing the back of Ian's head tightly. "I think you mean reduction."

"Oh, reduction?" Ian teased back, face happy and relaxed.

"I mean, yeah, if it were any bigger I'd be worried for your safety. Don't wanna hurt you. What with your gag reflex problem and all."

Ian's big hand cupped his cheek, and Mickey smiled into the feel of Ian's lips. "So glad you're concerned."

"You're so sensitive," he added between kisses, deciding his tamale could wait.

He tossed it on the dresser, then he knelt on the bed, straddling Ian's hips and resting his jean clad ass against his thighs. The hands on Mickey’s hips moved under his tank top, massaging his back lightly. Mickey reached a hand behind his head to pull his shirt off, letting it fall on the floor beside the bed.

Smiling, Ian rested his cheek on Mickey’s bare chest. “It's gonna be okay. Right?”

“Sure, we got this covered,” Mickey agreed, wrapping his arms around Ian’s shoulders and pulling him close enough that he could rub his cheek against the red hair. “Cause you're gonna call 911, right?”

“Yeah,” Ian agreed. His right arm tightened around Mickey’s waist at the same moment that he twisted onto his side. Mickey landed gently on the bed, head on the edge of the pillow, Ian hovering above him. Their legs interlocked, tightly wound together, and Mickey touched his stubbled cheek. “But I don’t know how long I can do this, Mickey.”

“Welcome to the system, man.”

Their lips finally met, slowly this time. They were tired, worried and frustrated. But they were together. Ian’s stomach growled so loudly that they laughed, foreheads resting together.

“You need to eat,” Mickey rolled away, a small bloom of panic in his chest. “Did you take your fucking pills before Paula showed up?”

“Yeah, all good.”

While Ian stuffed his face with the leftover tamale, Mickey undressed and stared at the single bed with a frown. “Fuck’s sake.”

Ian shrugged, setting the plate on the nightstand. “I was thinking,” he paused and Mickey gave him his usual frown when he began a sentence that way, “that we could sleep up there for old time’s sake.”

Mickey followed the direction of his finger, eyes landing on the top bunk of the boys’ bed.

“You miss your prison bed, man?” Mickey snorted.

“Well, if we’re stuck in a shitty single bed, might as well make it memorable.”

“A’ight.”

While Ian ditched his clothes, Mickey swung up to the top bunk, arranging the blankets so he and Ian could crawl under them. “Grab that pillow too.”

Ian tossed it up and joined him. After some shuffling which caused a little concern as the bed creaked and complained, they settled. Ian rested his head on Mickey’s bicep and they curled up facing each other.

“Can’t fucking believe you’re here, Mick.”

“Makes two of us.”

Ian pressed a kiss to his lips, while his hand made a trip down Mickey’s body until it could slip beneath his underwear and circle his dick. “Reach above your head, should be some Jergens and T.P.”

Blocking all thoughts of what that actually meant, Mickey did as he was told, squirting a dollop into Ian’s outstretched hand. Then Ian’s lips were back on his and his slicked up hand stroked Mickey to hardness, finding the perfect rhythm immediately.

“Also old time’s sake,” Ian whispered against his mouth, hand moving quickly. “Me sneakily jerking you off in this room.”

Mickey breathed deeply through his orgasm before replying because, then and now, Ian knew exactly how to turn Mickey into a panting mess. “Where _haven’t_ you sneakily jerked me off?”

“Father Thomas’s rectory?”

Mickey’s eyes opened to find Ian’s wide with pleasure and less than an inch from his own. He shook his head as he watched Ian’s brain buzzing with corny responses. Before Ian could settle on one, Mickey piped up. “Well, let’s see if we can rec-tify that.”

The happy grin on Ian’s face was worth lowering his pun standards, and he pressed a kiss to the end of Ian’s nose then wiped himself up, tossing the stuff back into the Gallagher masturbation hidey hole.

“Get some sleep,” he ordered, feeling the day all the way to his bones, especially the bones that hit the pavement earlier.

“Yeah, I gotta work in the morning.”

“What time?”

“7:00.”

“Fuck, close your eyes.”

They fell asleep content to be together, even if it was in a shitty single bunk bed with worn out sheets and a bunch of half naked chicks pinned to the walls around them.

A few hours later though, the pressure of a full bladder pulled Mickey from sleep. His senses stirred, alert to something more than bodily function. Ian was asleep. He could tell by how relaxed and warm he was in Mickey’s arms and the soft in and out of his breath. Removing his lips from where they rested lightly against Ian’s forehead, he opened his eyes.

Another set of eyes stared back at him from the edge of the bed, and Mickey’s fist shot out, connecting with jawbone hard enough to send the face toppling backward but not hard enough to do any real damage. He tugged gently at his arm, freeing it from under Ian’s head and flexing a few times to get the blood pumping then he hopped over the edge of the bunk, landing lightly on the carpet.

He crouched down to get face to face with Ian’s little brother, who huddled against the twin bed. “Fuck you doin’ staring at us for?”

“You’re in my bed,” Carl accused, rubbing at the side of his face.

“Why you here? Aren’t you banging one of the Mexican Gallaghers?”

“She has a curfew.”

“Well, you’re gonna have to sleep in a different bed tonight. I ain’t waking him up.”

Carl studied him closely, but remained silent. Reminded that he had woken up to piss, Mickey shrugged at the kid and headed to the bathroom to relieve himself. As he shot piss in the direction of the toilet, the door creaked partially open. He felt eyes on his back and craned to look over his shoulder.

“Jesus, kid, did you become a stalker while I was gone?” He moved to the sink and flicked his fingers under the tap then in the direction of the towel Ian had slung over the curtain rod. Carl was still standing at the door when he finished.

“Can I help you?”

The force of the hug pushed him a couple steps backward. For a brief moment, Mickey thought he had to be fucking dreaming, but then he decided there was not a chance in hell that he’d dream about any of Ian’s siblings showering him with affection.

Awkwardly tapping his palm against Carl’s back, Mickey tried to disengage them. “The fuck is going on?”

Carl stepped back and looked at Mickey closely. “He’s gonna be okay now.”

Swiping a finger over his nose, Mickey shrugged. “Fucking hope so.”

The kid kept smiling that lopsided grin like he knew something Mickey didn’t. “So,” he whispered excitedly, “did you escape again?”

Fucking Gallaghers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love the comment section of fics for so many reasons but none more than getting to hear your brilliant and witty thoughts! Case in point, EverythingShines has labeled that prison hooch, Gator-Ade <333


	13. Episode 6 Recap

**Here’s what you missed on the last episode of Shameless…**

_Watch the scene where Ian and his partner Yolanda, in the EmergVac ambulance, drive by the kid who is hurt on the side of the street. I can’t find a link to it._

**Gallagher House**

“Fuck, fuck,” Ian chanted, while he finished his EmergeVac shift and eventually made the trek home. “Fuck.”

Ten hours of fake heart attacks, fake food poisoning and fake falls down the stairs. He might as well be a fake EMT for all the good he was doing. After driving by the hurt kid, he’d called dispatch to confirm that an actual ambulance had arrived on the scene, but he knew that every second counted and if that kid needed those seconds then that was on Ian.

The shit with Paula’s dog had freaked him the fuck out because he finally understood what he was up against. So instead of doing what he was trained to and helping an injured child, he’d listened to Yolanda list off every fucking type of BBQ in the greater Chicago area. Now, he needed to talk to Mickey about it since the promise he’d made last night looked vastly different in the light of day.

The street in front of his house was empty, no Mexicans, no tamales for sale. Between prison and Carl’s new extended family, he’d gotten used to living in a community, so the quiet interior of the house felt eerie. He jogged up the stairs, but their single bed was empty, as was the bathroom. Taking the back stairs down to the kitchen, he found it quiet too.

“Mick,” he yelled. When he got no response, his chest tightened in frustration and pent-up anger. “Fuck.”

Mickey didn’t have a cell yet, so he had no way to reach him. The only person Ian could think of on Mickey’s radar for today was Sandy, which meant he might be at the Milkovich house.

Fuck.

For the hundredth time, the correctional system had released Terry Milkovich to terrorize his family and the goddamn South Side. Even though Mickey hadn’t seen him in years, it didn't mean that he was free of the psychotic prick. If Mickey had gone there, it was a big fucking deal, and Ian had been so caught up in Paula’s bullshit, he’d neglected to check in with his boyfriend.

Back outside, he half jogged up Wallace, brisk evening air turning his nose red by the time he turned onto Zemansky. There should have been a path worn into the pavement from all the trips his teenage self had made between the two houses. Sometimes for Mandy, but most times for Mickey.

The old Tudor shithole was still standing despite the fact it deserved a wrecking ball. The yard looked tidier than he’d ever seen it, leaving him to wonder who was responsible for that happening. He pounded on the front door, an edge of anxiety threatening to send him back down the steps before the door could open.

A guy slightly older than Ian answered. They gave each other the once over, and based on the thug-like expression, Ian decided he was probably a Milkovich by blood, but not one he’d ever laid eyes on.

“Didn’t call an ambulance, _Sparky_.”

Ian glanced at his chest, where the EmergeVac crest peeked out from behind his jean jacket. When he looked back up, the guy frowned.

“Where the hell’s your rig?”

“Not on duty. Uh, I’m here for...Sandy,” he explained.

“Out.”

Ian tipped his head to get a look at the interior of the house.

“Don’t believe me, man?” the guy smirked, stepping to the side to block Ian’s view of the dim, rundown living room. Instinct stopped him from asking for Mickey, and he stepped backward just as the door slammed shut in his face.

Fuck.

Mickey fiddled with the Data Usage setting on his new iPhone, while keeping half an eye on the sidewalk in front of him. As he turned onto Wallace, he checked the time on the screen. 6:45. Ian should be home by now, and he hoped no new shit had happened so they could enjoy a peaceful night, maybe watch something on Netflix.

When the gray brick exterior of the Gallagher house came into view, his feet slowed. Ian sat on the top step, knees pulled toward his body, face troubled. He’d changed from his uniform into an old button down and jeans, and the dying light from the sun reflected off the red and orange highlights in his hair.

Mickey didn’t get a chance to appreciate the view. The pounding in his chest made his stomach churn, but he forced his feet to continue their journey. When he paused at the metal gate, Ian looked up and all Mickey could see was Ian leaving him. One way or another. The sadness on his pale face, the heavy weight in how he held his shoulders, the way he had of pulling into himself and away from Mickey. 

“Fuck’s going on?” he demanded, hearing the strain in his voice.

“You weren’t home,” Ian said, standing up. One hand on the wooden railing, the other in the pocket of his jeans.

Mickey held up his new iPhone for Ian to see. “Sandy hooked me up, but I needed to get a Sim card.”

Ian looked past Mickey, gaze unfocused. “I went to your Dad’s place to see if you’d been there.”

“Shit, no. At least not yet.” Mickey pushed open the metal gate. "You see the old bastard?"

Ian shook his head. “Saw him once though,” he said quietly, “when you were in Mexico. Went to the house."

“Fuck you do that for?”

Ian shrugged. Mickey was really fucking confused and unsure how to proceed, so he opted to join Ian on the porch. As he cautiously moved up the steps, Ian finally looked at him.

“I drove by a kid today. He’d been hit by a car, and I just left him there.” Ian’s voice barely carried to him. “Liam’s age.”

Finally, Mickey understood. The air left his lungs in a swoosh, and he stepped into Ian’s personal space, so he could wrap his arms around his shoulders. Ian’s cheek immediately pressed into the side of Mickey’s neck and his arms wound around Mickey’s waist. They stood there a moment, silent and still, and Mickey wondered where they would be today if Ian had allowed him back in after that goddamn trip with his Mother instead of ending shit between them.

[by Steorie](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/steorie)

Sliding his fingers through Ian’s hair and stopping when they could caress his cheek, Mickey smiled a little to hide the constant fear that somehow he’d push Ian away during these important moments. “It’s gonna be okay, promise.”

In truth, he had no fucking idea if it would be okay. The events of their lives certainly didn’t support the theory that anything would be okay, _ever_ , but damned if he was going to admit defeat.

Ian only shrugged. “I can’t do that again, Mick.” 

“I know, but you’re gonna have to, at least for a bit.”

“Fucking wish she was dead,” Ian snapped, stepping back, arms dropping from Mickey. “She needs to be stopped, Mickey. How many people have been hurt because of her?”

“Ian,” Mickey said sternly. “Let’s go inside.”

He faced the street, fists clenched, looking ready to follow through on that threat. “I gotta do something.”

“Inside. _Now_.” Mickey took hold of his arm, tugging firmly and Ian allowed himself to be led toward the door.

“I mean it!”

“Gotcha,” Mickey said, pulling the door closed behind them. Ian headed toward the kitchen, patting the heads of two junior Gallaghers sitting on the sofa watching _Simpsons_ reruns. Mickey was tempted to join them, but figured the loose cannon in the kitchen still needed his attention.

He tossed his jacket over the back of a kitchen chair, while watching Ian half hidden behind the fridge door, muttering about the lack of dinner options. “I don’t ever wanna see another goddamn tamale as long as I live.”

Fed up with the grumbling, Mickey pushed him out of the way, doing his own scan and grabbing a few ingredients. “Lots of leftovers," he said. "Looks like there’s shit in here to make a burrito if we got tortilla shells."

Ian snorted. “How’s that any different than a tamale?”

“Big fucking difference, man,” Mickey sniffed. He found a stack of foil wrapped shells and waved them in Ian’s direction. “You ain’t gonna make a fucking burrito without them. You got no culture, Gallagher.”

“So I’ve been told.” Ian flopped onto the kitchen stool, tossing his jacket next to Mickey’s.

With a stack of plastic containers on the counter, Mickey found a pan to heat up the ground beef. “By who?”

“No one.”

“Spit it out.”

“Just drop it.”

“Another fucking boyfriend who thinks you need upgrading?” Pissy Ian glared at him, and Mickey shrugged as he dumped the meat in the pan. “Your exes seem like real fuckwads, man.”

“Yeah? You were dating princes and shit in Mexico, were you?”

“Yup, the Prince of Mexico and me were getting pretty serious before Gay Jesus spoke to me in a dream,” Mickey hummed a little, looking up at Ian through his lashes. “That’s kinda hot, actually.”

“So your fantasy now is to bang a prince?” Ian scowled and set his phone on the counter. “But that is kinda hot,” he mumbled.

As he poked a finger into the screen, looking way too serious about whatever he was typing, Mickey stretched across the countertop to grab the phone.

“Fuckin’ hell, Ian! _How to kill your PO_ _?_ ” he half whispered it. “They do a search of your phone and you’re in serious shit.”

“I’ll delete my search history.”

After pocketing Ian’s phone, he gave the meat a flip. “Enough. I told you to get over this shit.”

Ian slumped forward, chin resting in the palms of his hands as he ignored Mickey’s common fucking sense. “I don't wanna go back to work, Mickey. Like, seriously, what if someone actually dies because I didn’t help them?”

“Okay, take a breath. We’ll come up with a plan, can’t just go off, half-cocked. Remember how that shit worked out for me and your bitch sister?” He widened his eyes to emphasize his point.

“Your meat is gonna burn if you don’t flip it.” Ian changed the subject, and they lapsed into silence for a bit as Mickey prepared their meal, dumping containers of rice, diced tomatoes and jalapeños into the pan.

“We got no beans. Gonna be substandard,” Mickey complained.

"How'd you learn to cook?" Ian asked. “Reading cooking magazines?”

“Dumping shit in a pan and rolling it in a tortilla doesn’t make me Julia fucking Childs.”

“How do you know who Julia Childs even is?”

Mickey pointed the spatula at him. “See, no culture. Heat up the tortillas, man. Easier to roll that way.”

Ian got up to unwrap the foil. “How many?”

“Six. Figure those little shits need supper too, and we can leave some leftovers for whoever shows up later.”

A small smile touched Ian’s lips, and he counted out six shells, which he placed in the microwave.

“Hey,” Mickey said. “Why’d you go to Terry’s while I was in Mexico?”

Ignoring the question as the microwave buzzed, Ian asked, “How come that psychotic prick knew you were there?”

Mickey removed the pan from the burner then unwrapped a brick of cheese. “If he’s such a psychotic prick, why’d you go visit him?”

“Is this some kind of Mexican stand-off?” Ian asked.

“Nah, it’s you refusing to answer my goddamn question.”

Ian flopped the tortillas onto a plate and scowled at Mickey. “I don’t know how to answer your question.”

“Lost your memory?”

Ian nodded. “I was back on Aripiprazole and Lamictal but working out the dosages, so yeah, still fucked in the head.”

“That shit takes time to sort, man. Give yourself a fucking break.” He covered the first tortilla with the meat mixture and a little cheese, pointing at it for Ian to roll.

When Ian started fiddling with the shell, clearly new to the concept, Mickey stepped behind him, bringing his arms around Ian’s waist and looking over his shoulder. Ian paused his movements, staring at their joined hands and waited for Mickey to guide them.

“Tap it once first.” He closed his fingers around Ian’s, encouraging him to pick up the edges of the tortilla. “Gently. Yeah.”

Slowly, they folded one end over, concentrating on the way their hands worked together. “Gotta be tight.”

Mickey could feel Ian’s chest rumble, so he snapped his hips forward. “That’s what she said.”

Now they both laughed quietly and finished tucking the ends of the burrito.

“Wrap it in some foil while you finish your story,” Mickey instructed, stepping away. “You got back on your meds, then what?”

Ian continued his retelling while applying the newly learned burrito rolling technique to the next wrap. “Fi wanted me to take the insanity route but that would fuck over the Gay Jesus movement and all the work we’d done for the LGBTQ community. Make the whole thing about mental health.”

“Like it should be,” Mickey muttered.

Ian’s hands stopped moving, hurt moving across his face. “It was more than that, Mickey.”

“Yeah, man, sorry.” He pressed a kiss to Ian’s shoulder as he returned the containers to the fridge. “That kid in Juárez sure as shit thought it was, wearing your t-shirt like he was fucking proud or something.”

They shared a look. “Anyway, if I didn’t take an insanity plea then the movement would be okay, but I’d be in prison for up to 15 years.”

“That’s even more of a bullshit sentence than the one I got for zapping your nutbar sister’s tits.”

“What the fuck were you thinking, Mick, huh?” Ian smacked him across the back of the head playfully, and Mickey’s eyebrows shot up. “Should’ve actually killed her.”

They shared another laugh, and Ian stuffed a rogue jalapeno into his mouth.

“Oh shit!” he said, excitement in his voice for the first time today. “What if we--”

“No! We are not gonna torture Paula, so get that outta your damn head.”

“But she fucking deserves it, Mick, and it would be like poetic justice if we used the defibrillator to zap her tits.”

“Eat your burrito.” He stuffed one into Ian’s hands, placed two in the fridge and picked up the remainders before heading to the living room, where Carl and Liam were still zoned out. He dropped a foil wrapped burrito into each of their laps, then glanced at Ian who leaned against the kitchen entry. “Let’s go upstairs.”

By the time they were in the bedroom, Ian’s burrito was gone. Mickey eyed the balled up foil, and Ian shrugged. “Guess I was hungry.”

“Guess so, Sparky.” Mickey took a big bite, flicking a piece of cheese off his grey tank top while Ian crawled onto the bed to lean against the wall among his childhood posters. “Still don’t have a clue why you’d visit Terry fucking Milkovich without having a gun to your head.”

Resting his head against the wall, Ian closed his eyes. “I was trying to decide whether I should run and wanted to know how different prison was compared to county lockup.”

“I suppose he’s a fucking expert,” Mickey decided, sitting on the edge of the bed as tiredness swept over his body. “And you didn’t think to talk to anyone you met in county? Like that dude who knows the dudes who couldn’t do long distance?”

“Antonio.”

“Yeah, sure, him.”

“Told you I wasn’t thinking straight.”

“What’d the old fucker tell you?”

“That Milkoviches don’t bottom.”

Mickey nodded slowly. “Swear to god, I was fucking adopted.” 

Ian laughed, long and freely, and Mickey relaxed a little. 

“You good now?” He looked over his shoulder at the redhead.

“Yeah,” he said slowly. “Just hate having no control. If I do something, shit happens. If I don’t do something, shit happens.”

“So you’re just figuring out that shit happens?” He got a half smile and a twinkle. “You didn’t hurt that kid, you didn’t ask for a shit PO, you didn’t want to drive away. Simple.”

Ian slid forward, his big ass feet dropping to the floor next to Mickey’s, his thigh pressed close. “I’m so glad you’re here,” he whispered. His green eyes looked clearer now, almost flirty. Mickey was a simple man. This was basically all it took to make him happy, and he returned Ian’s smile.

“Lip and Tami are moving to a motorhome or something tomorrow,” Ian explained, hand dropping to Mickey’s lap. “Apparently, the Gallagher house is more than she can handle.”

“So I heard,” he replied, but his attention focused on the pressure from Ian’s fingers along the inseam of his jeans.

“We’ll get their room.”

“Cool. You gonna do something with that hand tonight, Gallagher?”

Ian’s other hand came up to Mickey’s cheek, pulling him closer. “About to make my move.” Their eyes closed when their lips met, and Mickey leaned into it fully.

He was definitely a simple man.


	14. Episode 7

**Gallagher House**

Ian’s excited voice ripped Mickey from his deep contemplation over how to fold all the goddamn t-shirts piled on the double bed.

“We got a fucking door,” Ian sing-songed, giving the accordion door a tug until the magnets met and separated them from the rest of the house. 

Fresh from the shower, he only had a towel around his waist, which got an appreciative lip licking from Mickey followed by a noncommittal shrug. Looking back at the piles of clothing he’d carried from the other bedroom after his own shower and dumped on the bed, he muttered, “That might be pushing the definition of door, Ian.”

“Don’t be a party pooper,” Ian continued, opening the night stand drawer. “Annnnnnd...we got fucking lube, Mick!

He held the tiny travel-sized bottle out for examination.

“Again, that might be a bit of an exaggeration.”

Apparently, Ian couldn’t be detoured from his review of the bounty he’d discovered. “And, the trifecta, a fucking double bed.”

Mickey schooled his features into doubt as he looked down at the ratty old sheets and sagging mattress that had entertained bodies he’d rather not know about. Ian’s enthusiasm dipped a little, and Mickey flicked his eyebrows, ready to play the game.

“Don’t forget we also got,” he stepped forward, hand cupping Ian’s junk through the towel, “your dick and my ass.”

“Well,” Ian said in a low voice, “I was thinking we also got my tongue.”

Mickey’s eyes shot to Ian’s, teasing and clothing completely forgotten. When Ian’s tongue peeked out from between his lips and slowly, purposefully played with his upper lip, Mickey popped up to his tippy toes, so he could capture his tongue with his own. It was firm and determined in Mickey’s mouth, letting him know what Ian was planning to do with it.

God, it had been for-fucking-ever since he’d felt Ian’s tongue on his ass since they weren’t stupid enough to get caught doing that shit in prison. Now that it was on his mind, he might fucking die if something interupted them.

Shifting his hips forward, Ian reached around Mickey to cup his ass through the cotton of his boxers, material so thin he could feel the heat of his palms and when he squeezed almost painfully, Mickey groaned. Breath coming quicker, the harder his fingers dug into Mickey's flesh, pulling his ass cheeks apart. He gripped Ian’s shoulders like a lifeline since his legs were already starting to shake.

Then Ian’s mouth was gone as he sunk into a crouch, taking Mickey’s boxers down with him. Stepping out of them, he grabbed a handful of Ian’s hair, fingers tightening in anticipation. His warm tongue swiped over Mickey’s balls, capturing one between his lips, while his thumb slid over his hole.

“Fuuuuck,” Mickey groaned and Ian chuckled, sending reverberations through his body. There was something so familiar about Ian’s actions. The way his tongue worked over his body, finding its way along his cock until it could swipe the pre-come from the tip. The way his thumb circled but didn’t demand entry. The way Ian got back to his feet, one arm firm around Mickey’s waist as his tongue demanded re-entry to Mickey’s mouth, leaving his own taste behind.

Mickey’s eyes popped open to find Ian’s already staring at him, knowingly. 

“Going away present number four,” Ian smirked. 

His hastily scratched description of everything he wanted to do to Mickey, left in the sketchbook on his last night in prison. Mickey had read those words at least a dozen times, so he knew exactly what was coming and somehow that made it even hotter.

Hooking a finger under the towel, Ian pressed his naked body against Mickey’s, skin to skin, dick to dick. They exhaled all the pent up energy that five years of waiting produced. Mickey wrapped his arms around Ian’s neck, tightening his hold to keep them locked together. Not that Ian fought it, his big hands grasped Mickey’s now bare ass and pulled him against his body.

For a few heartbeats, they stood that way, awareness in every cell of their bodies. Slowly, Ian’s hand worked its way down the back of Mickey’s thigh. “I guess you know I’m gonna fuck you all over this bedroom,” Ian murmured into his neck as his fingers tightened, encouraging one of Mickey’s legs to wrap around Ian’s waist. "Until you beg me to stop."

They both shivered when Mickey bit down on the flesh of Ian's ear then swiped a soothing tongue over it. The tenderness of the gesture contrasted with the blatant need in Ian’s hands as they traveled back to Mickey’s ass, spreading him open and moving them closer to the bed.

Both of Mickey’s legs tightened around Ian as he hit the mattress with the full weight of Ian’s body covering him. Ian was all over his neck, sucking and biting, his dick rutting against Mickey’s. Sinking into it, Mickey relished being devoured, breath ragged and loud to his own ears, until Ian found his wrists, dragging his arms above their heads, and sending several folded t-shirts to the floor.

Their eyes held while Mickey’s biceps strained against Ian’s grip and his knees fell open, sending Ian into a frenzy of activity. His mouth covered Mickey’s, tongue demanding entry. His knees bent under Mickey’s thighs lifting him higher. His grip loosened so his hands could slide down the sides of Mickey’s body.

Then Ian flipped him over, roughly manhandling Mickey onto his stomach, the full weight of his body pressed Mickey into the mattress and his entire body relaxed as Ian maneuvered Mickey’s right thigh out of his way.

He slid down Mickey’s body, hands and lips everywhere, until they arrived at his ass, and his tongue finally connected with Mickey, licking so intimately that he pressed a knuckle to his mouth to stop the noises trying to escape. That door Ian was so happy to have would do nothing to keep his moans contained if he let them free.

“Lift your ass,” Ian demanded. He obeyed as best he could, tipping his hips and opening himself even further. “Yeah.”

Jesus, everything set his nerve endings on fire. The pressure of Ian’s palms against his ass, the tip of his tongue inside Mickey’s body, the hot breath on his hole. 

He reached a hand to Ian’s head as his hips started to rock looking for pressure on his cock but unable to find it because he was angling to stay connected with Ian’s mouth. His hand came around to cup Mickey’s balls, squeezing dangerously because he was now one moan away from coming.

“Ian,” he pleaded even though it was going to kill him when he removed his mouth, but they had a long fucking night ahead of them if they were going to reenact all the things Ian had written. 

Mickey’s body tried to follow Ian’s tongue when it slipped out of his body. “I can keep going,” he offered, penetrating him with a finger now wet with lube and Mickey pushed back into the finger, over and over, until it was gone too.

“Fuck,” he moaned but let his hips fall to the bed, humping into the worn comforter a couple of times, until he felt the bed give a little as Ian settled beside him.

“You know what’s next,” Ian’s hot breath fanned his ear and he humped the bed one more time, making the damn redhead laugh. “You gotta ride me.”

“Fuck.”

“Come on, you can do it,” Ian coaxed him, while his finger found Mickey’s hole again reminding him that he was empty. “Ride me, Mickey.”

He somehow managed to straddle him, immediately grinding down on Ian’s dick and letting his head fall forward as he breathed in and out. The tiny bottle of lube peeked out from under the boxers that Mickey had painstakingly folded and now were tousled. Drizzling some onto Ian, he watched his fingers make a slow slide down his length, circling his fingers tightly and feeling Ian’s body tighten beneath him. Between grunts, he lined Ian up and lowered onto him, back arched in pleasure each time he felt Ian fill him.

They fucked like that for long enough to get them good and ready. When Ian sat up, Mickey wrapped his arms around Ian's neck, kissing him deeply as they moved to the edge of the bed.

Ian’s knees spread and one hand braced behind his body, giving him the leverage to push to his feet. Taking two steps forward, he pressed Mickey into the wall as his ankles locked behind Ian's back, hands in silky hair, mouth open against Ian’s as they panted harshly. He tried to meet Ian’s thrusts but was trapped between the wall and Ian’s body. All he could do was take it and groan his pleasure. He arched his back slightly, intensifying the angle and adding needed friction to his cock.

Ian slowed his thrusts, and even though Mickey braced himself for their next position, he wasn’t prepared for his ass to be empty. Before he could complain, he was on his knees bent over the end of the bed, and Ian was kneeling behind him. The click of the lube bottle filled the room, the sweetest sound he’d ever heard.

Ian slid back in, effortlessly hitting Mickey where he needed it and his hands reached up to cover Mickey’s. Together they grasped the sheets and held on. Mickey pressed back into Ian each time he entered in the pattern so familiar to them. They rocked together building up to orgasms that would require more than a flimsy plastic door to keep them contained.

But Ian wasn’t finished. He pulled out again, quickly replacing his dick with two of his fingers, feeling how open Mickey was and breathing heavily into his back. Then he stood up, taking Mickey with him despite his wobbly legs, and planting him back in the middle of the bed.

Mickey’s legs opened long enough for Ian to get his hips between them, then they closed like a vise, thigh muscles trembling with the effort to trap him. This was the final round as far as he was concerned. His orgasm demanded attention and all the other things Ian had written would have to wait. "Now, Ian."

"Beg." Wrapping a big hand around Mickey's thigh, Ian pulled it up toward his chest, so his hips had more room to move. "Beg me."

It bordered on ridiculous because Mickey knew all he'd have to do was look at Ian, maybe bite his lip and moan a little and it would all be over for Ian. Instead he begged because that's what Ian liked, to know Mickey couldn't take it any longer, that he was losing his mind with pleasure.

"Please." He looked up into Ian's eyes to give him that extra push.

Ian shoved a hand between their bodies, jerking Mickey off to the rhythm of his hips, leaving Mickey the job of connecting their mouths. He swept his tongue around Ian’s, over and over as his body tensed with pleasure. When Ian came, Mickey felt it all the way up his spine, and he couldn’t imagine any way to be closer to this man than to join him.

Once they caught their breath, Ian lifted up to his elbows, smiling proudly at Mickey over his successful mission. Mickey scoffed, reaching beneath his back for the bunched up material, yanking it out with a grunt.

“Hey,” Mickey said looking at the black t-shirt material. “This mine?”

Ian’s cheeks turned a subtle shade of red, and Mickey’s eyebrows reacted in surprise.

“What?” he asked, touching Ian’s burning cheek. “You save this or somethin’?”

Ian nodded.

“Oh,” Mickey whispered. They stared at each other, trying to read the other’s expression. “To wear it?”

“Sometimes.”

Mickey felt like he was holding his breath, trying to catch it and he wasn’t even sure why. Just that he knew there was something important about this, and he wanted, needed, Ian to tell him what it was. He searched both of his eyes.

“Only when I wasn’t sure I could keep doing this shit without you.”

Inhaling deeply, Mickey dropped his hand from Ian’s cheek, feeling way too raw. “I’ll put it in the back of the drawer. Just in case.”

They broke eye contact, over exposed for the moment. Ian slid off of Mickey’s body, shoving at the remaining shirts and boxers, sending them over the edge of the bed.

“The fuck. I was folding those, bitch.” He grasped onto the familiarity of busting Ian’s balls over shit.

“It’ll all be there waiting for you when you wake up,” Ian retorted, grasping at the familiarity of being a little shit.

“Well, then get busy spooning me. I’m fucking beat.”

They wiped up and assumed their positions, Ian’s chest pressed to him, his bony knees tucked behind Mickey’s. When his hand slid over Mickey’s hip and waist looking for Mickey’s hand, it paused finding the worn t-shirt still grasped in his tattooed fingers.

Mickey released it and Ian tossed it onto the night stand, knocking over his pill bottles then he curled his arm around Mickey.

“Maybe I’ll text Sandy to search the house for any of my shit that’s still there,” Mickey decided, feeling ready to face that hurdle.

Ian kissed his neck, hot breath tickling the hairs there. “Good idea. Ask her to check the closet for our stash of toys.”

With a stupid ass smile on his face, Mickey quickly drifted to sleep, dreaming about the Gulf of California. While the sun set, he sat on the patio of JJ’s Cantina along Cholla Bay during one of his runs to Puerto Peñasco, drinking _cervesa_ and watching the sea crash into rough sand. He felt relaxed in a way he never quite managed despite his determination to make the most of his semi-freedom. No matter what shit he’d been forced to do to survive in Mexico, it beat the hell out of prison.

There were only two other people on the patio with him but they didn’t interest Mickey, so he scanned the beach beyond the patio, feeling peaceful and content and knowing only one thing in the world gave him that feeling. 

Light from one of the cruise ships dotted the horizon and turned the dark water into a light show, but his attention caught on a figure walking along the water’s edge. He couldn’t make out any features but he knew. Of course, he fucking knew. He would always know if Ian was somewhere close.

He stood up, moving toward the edge of the worn, wooden patio as the figure on the beach moved closer.

Excitement swamped his chest as Ian emerged from the darkened beach into the light from the Cantina. He waved once like they hadn’t been separated for nearly two years, before jogging the rest of the way. His sneakered feet sunk into the sand and slowed his pace, making Mickey want to scream in frustration because it felt like it was taking forever.

But eventually he stood in front of Mickey, breath coming quickly and matching Mickey’s even though he hadn’t exerted himself. 

“Gonna buy a guy a drink, Mick?” he teased. His wide smile nearly brought tears to Mickey’s eyes, he’d missed it so fucking much. 

All he could do was nod, certain his voice would give away too much of his inner turmoil and reveal his desperation for this to be real, not just another drunken dream. 

Ian leaned in, quickly kissing his lips and Mickey twisted his fingers in Ian’s white t-shirt, willing him to continue. It had been so long since he’d been kissed. Once upon time, he’d fought that feeling, knowing it was a dangerous thing to want yet being unable to stop himself. Now, he craved it and didn’t care who fucking knew it.

Still smiling, Ian took Mickey’s hand and led him to a bench on the edge of the patio.

“How about a beer?” Ian asked when Mickey sat beside him. 

He wanted to say something witty and charming so Ian would look at him like he was special, but he couldn’t get any words out, afraid he’d say the wrong thing and Ian would leave.

A big warm hand cupped his lower back, sliding his body along the rough surface of the bench until their thighs touched and Mickey’s hand dropped to Ian’s knee. Pulling the pack of Marlboro from the front pocket of Mickey’s flowered shirt, Ian lit one, exhaling fully before placing it between Mickey’s lips.

The nicotine eased some of the tightness in his chest and he started to relax. Looking at the mild red burn on the end of Ian’s nose, he finally spoke. “What are you doing here, Ian?”

He looked fucking radiant, like all he needed was to get away from their South Side grind for five minutes and he’d come alive in a way Mickey felt sure he used to be.

“I just wanna be where you are, Mickey.”

He opened his eyes. The moonlight reflecting off the Gulf of California was replaced by light filtering through the thin bedroom curtains and reflecting off of Ian’s pale chest where he lay on his back next to Mickey. Placing his hand in the middle of Ian’s chest, Mickey found the rhythmic rise and fall and tried to mimic it.

Ian lifted his arm, encouraging Mickey to slip under it so his head could rest where his hand had been and listen to the thump of his heart.

“You okay?” Ian asked.

“Dreamin’.”

“About?”

“Tequila and sandals.”

Ian’s arm tightened around him as he tipped his chin until his lips found Mickey’s hair. “Was it a bad dream?”

“Nah, you were there.”

His lips pressed harder into the crown of Mickey’s head. “Why are you so tense then?”

“Dunno.”

Ian adjusted their bodies so he could turn onto his side, Mickey still resting on his bicep, face tucked into his shoulder. Slipping his hand between their bodies, Ian touched Mickey first, stroking him until he hardened, then capturing his own erection and lining it up with Mickey’s. He slid his knee between Ian’s thighs and breathed deeply.

_I wanna be where you are too, Ian._

[By Steorie](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/steorie)

[Watch “Little domestic bitches” courtesy of Tue](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xjG3X_Hva-Y)

**Yorktown Center Shopping Mall**

The mid-morning chill hit Mickey and Sandy as they stepped off the number 62 bus and made their way through street construction toward Yorktown Center. Lighting up, Mickey tried to remember the last time he’d stepped foot in a goddamn shopping mall. A small town Texas strip mall flashed across his mind, and he sucked hard on his smoke, needing the familiar distraction in order to face all the old memories that had been stirred up since last night’s dream.

_“What about this dress then?”_

_Ian pulled what had to be the least sexy dress off the rack, holding it against his body like that would help Mickey visualize his own body in it. He angrily swatted at the black material, frustrated that they were in a Target in the middle of who knows where picking out women’s clothing because their life was that fucked up._

_“That ugly piece of shit?”_

_“Suddenly, you’re a dress expert?”_

_“I got eyes, don’t I?” They glared at each other for a full minute, until Mickey relented. This shit wasn’t Ian’s fault. “Was this your fucking plan all along, asshole?”_

_Pressing the dress against Mickey’s chest, Ian nodded approvingly. “Yup, you’ve discovered my devious scheme, Mick. I’d make you fall for me, so one day I could get you into this beautiful, flowered dress.”_

Sandy’s elbow connected with his ribs and he grunted. 

“You nervous about your new job or something? It’s like walking beside a ball of stress.”

“Thinking about other shit,” he confided, locking his memories back up.

“Like what?” She wiggled her fingers in his direction, and he took another drag before handing the cigarette over. No sense fighting the fact that he never seemed to get to finish a smoke on his own.

“Nothing important.”

“Ian,” she said confidently, flipping strands of auburn hair away from her face when the wind whipped them close to the lit end of the smoke. “What’d he do?”

“Fuck off. We’re good.”

She exhaled, tongue swiping over her lip ring once before she narrowed her eyes, assessing him like a fucking therapist. “Give it time.”

“ _Sandy_ …” he warned.

Sandy nudged his shoulder and returned the smoke. “Hey, I’m just saying his track record is shit.”

A tornado of doubt swirled around his chest. The dream had dredged up a bunch of shit that he seemed helpless to control even though it was true. Things were good between them. Really fucking good. And that was the problem. Every time things seemed really fucking good, something fucking bad happened.

_"_ _Why the fuck is the zipper on the back, anyway?” Mickey waited patiently as Ian began hooking each button on the dress into place. “Good fucking thing you’ll be there to get me outta this shit.”_

_When Ian’s fingers paused against his spine, Mickey glanced at their reflection in the dirty mirror of the gas station bathroom. He avoided looking at the stupid flowers on the dress, focusing instead on Ian’s bowed head and willing him to look up._

Mickey tossed the butt to the ground, aggressively smashing it to smithereens, and swiping at his nose once before looking at his cousin, who apparently wasn’t interested in keeping her opinions to herself.

“Look, I’m happy you're happy and all that shit, but I’m never gonna forget visiting you in prison back then, okay?” Her face was hard, unforgiving, clearly not intimidated by Mickey’s body language, which made sense since he wasn’t going to curb stomp her for opening her goddamn mouth. “ _Never_.”

He picked up the pace. The sooner they were at the mall, the sooner this conversation would be over.

“But I get that people have reasons and he had shit going on too, so I might be convinced to forgive. We’ll see.”

Mickey blinked at her, but before he could formulate a response she spoke again.

“Anyway. Terry keeps asking when you’re gonna get your ass home to help out with the hardware shipment,” she said, ignoring the crosswalk button and crossing toward the main mall doors. “You’re a Milkovich for life, I guess.”

“Remind me _not_ to get that tattoo.”

“Well, they’d probably kick you outta the family if they found out you were selling AR15s behind their back.”

“Hey,” he warned. “They’re not ARs, Sandy.”

“Only by a technicality, _Mick_.”

“A receiver blank isn’t _technically_ a firearm according to the ATF, so that’s their fucking problem.” They reached the Yorktown Center mall parking lot, maneuvering between a minivan and a delivery truck. “No serial number, no registration, no gun.”

“Once the holes are drilled that all changes. _Technically_.”

“Still no serials, but anyway that’s why I’m only an investor. Not a fucking smuggler.” He tapped the side of head. “Using the brains Gay Jesus gave me for a change.”

“Tell it to the Feds.” She held up her fingers, forcing him to look at the tips. “Gotta agree that investing beats the hell outta filing serial numbers. My fucking fingers have callouses.”

“Old school gun running is for punks,” Mickey sniffed as they waited for an old lady to back out of a stall. “But I need some fucking cash. Tell the dick that I’ll help.”

“Yeah? The run’s tonight, Mick”

He nodded. “Need that cash, like yesterday.”

“I’ll pass it on when I get back later.”

“You need outta that house?”

“Nah, I can handle myself.”

He looked at her profile, at the scar on her cheek that had been there as long as he could remember, a memento of their sometimes brutal upbringing. “That why you grabbed my junk back at the house? Testing me?”

She shrugged again. “Joey tried to convince me we aren’t _technically_ related cause Terry and Randi are only half sibs.”

“Fucking idiot. Say the word and I’ll draw him a fucking family tree he won’t forget.”

“It’s cool.”

“Also,” he paused for effect as they neared the mall doors. “Keep your hands off _my_ fucking junk.”

She snickered. “Why? You think I’m still afraid that Ian might break my fingers.”

“I might let him.”

She held one of the glass doors open for him, bowing slightly as he passed through. “I’m not interested in junk anyway.”

“Don’t know what you’re missing.”

The two story mall loomed in front of them, and they stood motionless taking it in.

“Shit,” Sandy laughed. “This is your new home.”

“Fuck’s sake,” he muttered, scanning the mile long row of stupid stores. “Where the fuck is Old Army?”

“There’s the mall map.” She pointed to an electronic kiosk and the mother of four who was trying to look something up while her hellions ran circles around her.

“Jesus Christ, do people got nothing better to do?” He could feel the headache starting in that spot behind his left eye.

Sandy threw an arm around his shoulders. “Just think. This is the first day of the rest of your life.” She laughed at the face he made. “I’m off to pick up a few things.”

Nodding, he watched at her retreating back, black leather jacket disappearing into the crowd of preppy shoppers. “Hey! Don’t make me arrest you!”

She shot him a finger and kept on walking.

A half hour later, Mickey was locked in an employee change room, looking at his reflection in the mirror and wondering if all it took was a pastel polo shirt and chino shorts to fool the middle class. His new buddy Nelson had explained that Mickey would be Old Army’s latest Loss Prevention Officer, which apparently meant that he had full powers of arrest and could detain and handcuff shoplifters. If that wasn’t the fucking irony of the century then he didn’t know what was.

This preppy outfit seemed a small price to pay for the privilege of busting stupid people’s asses. If you couldn’t manage to steal shit without getting caught, then you had no fucking business being in that business. Best leave it to the experts.

Once he finished tucking his shirt, he swiped into his phone, locating Ian’s number, snapping a selfie and confirming that he’d gotten the angle right. Ian needed to see the whole get-up because it wasn’t every day Mickey got all dolled up. As soon as he sent it, that goddamn Texas shopping trip popped up in his brain again. 

_“Woah, you look kinda hot,” he said with enough excitement that Mickey looked at him like he’d lost his damn mind. He was holding up his phone, camera angled toward Mickey._

_“Fuck off.”_

_Ian slipped the phone back into his pocket and smiled innocently._

_Adjusting the black tights one more time to get them to stop cutting off the circulation to his balls, Mickey glared at him. “If you’re into this shit so much maybe you should wear a fucking dress too.”_

_“Nope, we gotta play our parts.” Ian picked up their shopping bags before unlocking the bathroom door. “And you’re my beautiful bride.”_

_“You see a ring on this finger, man?”_

_Mickey wiggled a middle finger at him, but Ian’s smile no longer reached his eyes._

The buzz of an incoming text shook him free, and his preppy, middle class ass stared back at him from the phone screen. Below it a fresh text from Ian.

Ian (11:31pm): wtf

Mick (11:31pm): do gooder larry found the only do gooder corp in america willing to give me a job

Ian (11:32pm): i’m afraid to ask as what

Mick (11:32pm): security

Ian (11:32pm): shoplifting tends to be down when your in the building

Mick (11:33pm): coincidence

Ian (1:33pm): nice legs btw...but not your best feature

Mick (11:34pm): do you think the pink brings out my eyes

Ian (11:35pm): better than that fucking yellow jumpsuit

Mick (11:35pm): good point. meet me after my shift

Ian (11:36pm): k when

Mick (11:36pm): 4

Ian (11:36pm): where

Mick (11:37pm): food court. whadayawant

Ian (11:38pm): panda express

Mick (11:38pm): i’m getting pizza miss the shit outta pizza

Ian (11:39pm): picking up paycheck now. I’ll get some pizzas from costco

Mick (11:39pm): k gotta detain and arrest some fuckers now

Ian (11:40pm): hot

Smiling through the whole exchange, he decided to end it with a second selfie from a different angle highlighting his best feature before pocketing his phone and leaving the change room. Nelson hovered outside waiting to pounce on Mickey with his clipboard of fucking questions and upcoming training sessions.

“I believe that completes our paperwork,” his equally preppy new boss decided. With a touch of fanfare, he held out a freshly minted name tag. “You’re officially one of us, Mickey.

Welcome to corporate America, bitch.

[Watch “You stole this ugly piece of shit?” courtesy of Tue](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9vFnb_DtVnw)

**EmergeVac Station**

As the Redline picked up speed, Ian flicked between the two photos Mickey had just sent, grinning over the idea of the guy he’d grown up with dressed like a suburban dad. He studied his happy face for a moment, laughing a little at the familiar tip of his tongue poking out as he worked to angle the phone to properly capture the selfie.

Impulsively, he flicked through his photo gallery all the way back to images he’d saved from his old phone. He knew each of them by heart, even though he didn’t look at them very often because it was a freefall into everything he hated, and loved most, about his past. His finger paused on the last photo he had before Mickey was gone again. 

It was taken the night before they arrived at the border. The photo was grainy because the full moon didn’t make up for the lack of flash. Ian had taken it spontaneously, and his hands had been a little too shaky to worry about fiddling with the settings on his camera. He’d held the phone above their heads where they’d lain on the southwestern style blanket they’d found stowed in the back of the stolen car.

Mickey smiled into the camera, but Ian had turned his head at the last minute, looking instead at the happy profile. When Mickey had asked to see the picture, Ian had dropped the phone beside his hip and turned fully on his side to kiss Mickey. To let the spark consume him, quieting his mind as his body took over. Memorizing the taste and the feel of his mouth even though he’d never been able to forget it. Not while he’d been in prison and not during the time after the photo had been taken. 

_Fuck, I missed you._

[Watch “What the hell, Paula?” courtesy of Tue](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7L7OsnUe-A4)

Ian watched people scurry around the train station, preparing to board as the train screeched to a halt. He found a window seat, wondering what to do with himself for the next few hours since Costco was now a fucking dream. And Paula was a fucking nightmare.

Breathing deeply through his nose, he released the breath through pursed lips. It was one of the breathing techniques he’d learned in group therapy to help calm his state of mind. Maybe it helped, maybe not, but it did give him something to temporarily focus on when he started to freak out, and Paula’s bullshit about cutbacks made him want to punch something every time he remembered.

He was almost fucking broke. The cash he’d managed to put away before losing his job had dwindled to a frightening number, and it didn’t look like he was going to get paid for the job he fucking hated but couldn’t leave. Shit, how the hell was he going to make a living? 

His knee started vibrating as the train picked up speed. He’d gotten used to having money in the bank, not having to worry about that one particular life sucking problem. Buildings and skyscrapers whipped past his window in an endless blur, and he pulled his phone from his pocket again, figuring he’d stare at Mickey’s ridiculous new outfit as a way to perk himself up.

But he’d left the album open to the photo of them lying on the blanket. He scrolled until he found a photo from earlier. They’d stopped for a break after driving for hours over the endless Oklahoma terrain of brown earth. 

In the photo, Mickey stood beside the only tree for miles, its windblown branches reaching away from him as he finished taking a piss and zipped up his jeans. Ian had called out to him, so he’d look at the camera, and he’d fully expected to get an annoyed expression over having his picture taken. Instead, he’d gotten a happy, almost carefree post-sex smile.

Looking at the photo now, he could see it. He’d always been able to see it even when Mickey thought he was hiding it. Mickey loved him. It was in his eyes, the happy sparkle that had set off a tumultuous chain of events because Ian had gotten hooked on being looked at that way. Consequences be damned.

Even though Ian knew how much Mickey loved him, he had spent that whole trip conflicted, and because of that he’d never let his guard down, not truly at any point from the bleachers to the border. He’d held tightly to the idea of his family and to the person he was becoming. A sane, predictable Ian who saved lives, went for after work drinks, brought his boyfriend lunch. A safe life. Without the man he loved.

_Fuck, I missed you._

**Yorktown Center Shopping Mall**

Feeling successful after his first shift at Old Army, Mickey watched the dude behind the Panda Express counter working the wok like a pro, Ian’s noodles sizzling as he flipped them over the open flame. The sight and the smell triggered the memories that had been hovering around the edges of his mind all day, just waiting to surface since every damn thing seemed to remind him of that trip.

_“Why aren’t you eating your noodles?” Mickey asked as he gnawed on a firecracker shrimp and watched, from the front seat of the stolen car, as the border patrol dude walked around to the back of a beat-up minivan waiting to cross into Mexico._

_“Not hungry, I guess.”_

_The shrimp slid dryly down his own throat from thinking non-stop about getting caught and taking Ian down with him. While that thought had never been far from Mickey’s mind, he’d tried hard to hide it behind nonchalance because he could tell that it wasn’t going to take much to spook Ian._

_“Gonna be across the border soon,” he said, nudging Ian’s noodles where they sat on the console between them. “Nothing but tacos for the rest of our lives, so you better eat up.”_

_“Yeah.” The noodles remained on the seat, uneaten._

_“You like tacos, huh?”_

_“Sure.”_

_Mickey tossed his fork in the Styrofoam container and snapped the lid shut. He wanted to throw it out the window and watch it hit the ground. He wanted to smash his fist into the steering wheel and rage. Instead, he calmed himself like he’d calmed himself over and over the last couple years. He’d gotten fucking good at it._

_“Well, you better like fucking tequila.”_

_“Yeah.”_

_Yanking on the door handle, he gave Ian a quick look before getting out. “Having a smoke, man. You want one?”_

_“Yeah,” he said and Mickey grit his teeth._

“Excuse me, sir!” The Panda Express cook got Mickey’s attention. “Szechuan noodles, yes?”

“Yeah.”

Mickey accepted the container from the guy, reminding himself that he was in a Chicago shopping center not eating Chinese food in a stolen car two hundred feet from the Mexican border. He was about to meet Ian for supper, not kiss him good-bye.

Everything was fucking fine.

[Watch “You’re mine now” courtesy of Tue](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=csngWib2WjQ)

**Caleefa’s Apartment**

[Watch “Go Milkovich on him” courtesy of Tue](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hl8rium1yhc)

“Fuck’s sake,” Mickey spat, meeting Caleefa’s bloodshot, angry eyes. His earpiece was going crazy with Ian’s pleas to ignore Paula, to let the dude go, to not fucking do this. Mickey couldn’t take it anymore, so he clicked the headphones off, while trying to contain his prisoner’s flailing arms and legs. Fucker was bonier than Ian.

“I’m not going back to her!” Caleefa spat, when Mickey got his arms pinned again. “Stop being a douchebag and let me go!”

Mickey covered his big fucking mouth, pressing his palm hard enough to shut the guy up. Between his caterwauling, Paula’s bitching and Ian’s freaking out, he didn’t have a fucking second to think.

A layer of sweat covered his body, from exertion and frustration, as he tried to figure out what to do. On the one hand, he’d stopped hurting people for money and wanted to keep it that way. On the other hand, he’d told Ian to suck it up and follow Paula’s orders, however fucked up they were. Now Mickey was getting a taste of his own medicine.

“What’s going on? What did Paula say?” Caleefa shook Mickey’s hand off and spat up at him. “Fucking snitch.”

“We’ve reached the end of my patience, man,” he snapped, grabbing the guy’s wrist and twisting it behind his back, forcing him to his knees with the arm pinned behind him. If he didn’t hurry up and send this loser out the window, Paula would be on **_his_** ass. Mickey tightened his grip, earning another curse from the guy as his body sagged in defeat.

“She’s on her way up. Be here any second, in fact.” Mickey was actually worried that could be true because he was dragging his feet in indecision. He thought his enforcer days were behind him, for fuck’s sake.

“No,” Caleefa whimpered. “I can’t go back. She’s a fucking nightmare. I’ll do anything.”

Considering the two of them were kneeling on the disgusting stairs of some crack den on Chicago’s West Side all because that bitch said so was pretty much proof that she was a fucking nightmare.

“Well, _Caleefa_ , I’m not dealing with her shit, so me letting you go is not a fucking option,” Mickey explained with a moment’s regret, but the dipshit crossed Paula so what did he expect. “Course, you could always escape...”

Caleefa strained to look over his shoulder. “Fuck are you talking about?” He tried to yank his arms from Mickey’s grip as proof that he couldn’t escape.

“See that window over there?” Mickey said. “You could try to escape…”

[Watch “We gotta kill her” courtesy of Tue](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nhg4JWPeSLw)

**Walgreens Drug Store**

Ian fiddled with the handle of the basket as he followed Mickey down the soap aisle. The thud of Caleefa’s body hitting the roof of the car replayed itself in Ian’s mind, over and over.

“You didn’t have to do that, Mickey,” he nagged again, unable to focus on toiletries while their life went to shit. “We could’ve both told her to go fuck herself.”

“Ivory or this no-name shit?” He didn’t wait for Ian’s response though, just tossed a 6 pack of soap into the basket. “Shampoo.”

Ian continued to trail behind Mickey, while he added items to the basket. In the toothpaste aisle, he tried again to get through to Mickey. “It’s fucking lucky that dude didn’t break his back or die, Mick. Paula’s out of control. What’s next? No, don’t even answer that. Don’t wanna know.”

“Do we need floss?” He looked over his shoulder at Ian, smirk playing at his lips and Ian felt his own lips moving in response.

The floss landed on top of the soap, and Mickey moved to the next aisle. “Bingo,” he yelled when he reached the lube selection. “Definitely need to stock up since that travel size thing ain’t gonna last. Preference?”

Ian frowned at Mickey’s refusal to talk about what just happened. It was going to take him some time to get over seeing the guy’s body fly out the window, and it had to be affecting Mickey even though he’d walked out of the apartment building like nothing had happened, completely ignoring the unconscious body draped over the Nissan.

“No comment? Astroglide it is then,” Mickey said, tossing two into the basket. “Cheap so we can get more.”

“We need to order better shit online, Mick. Hate using cheap shit with you.”

Mickey snorted. “You got standards now, do you?”

Releasing a pent-up burst of air, Ian ignored him and held out the basket. “How the hell are we paying for all this? Paula kept my paycheck, remember?”

“I got a few bucks, relax.”

“ _Relax_ _?_ You keep saying that, but now we’re like accessories to attempted murder.”

Mickey’s head swiveled as he glanced up and down the empty aisle. “Jesus Christ, Ian, we’re in the middle of fucking Walgreens. Can we talk about this at home?”

“I’m just--”

He was cut off by the chirp of Mickey’s cell phone. “Larry,” he said, opening the text message. “He sent a video.”

Ian moved in close, shoulder to shoulder, and Mickey looked up at him. The strain was obvious in his face, in the frown lodged between his eyebrows, in the lines beside his mouth. Ian kissed his temple quickly, finally understanding that Mickey just wasn’t ready to talk about it.

They looked down at his phone screen as the video started to play. It was a clip from some news outlet about a suspicious death in Illinois Federal Penitentiary.

“Fuentes?” Ian whispered. “The guy you’re testifying against?”

“Yeah. No way it was suspicious,” Mickey whispered back. “Someone fucking popped him.”

“So...you won’t have to testify?” Ian held back his excitement, not ready to believe that they could be this lucky, especially after tonight’s events.

“He was my direct contact in the organization, so I don’t really have shit on anyone else.” He closed out of the video, returning to Larry’s text message. “He thinks I’m being removed from the witness list.”

“Holy shit.”

Mickey stuffed his phone back into his pocket and met Ian’s eyes. “Holy shit is right.”

“Could that all be over?” Ian still felt like he was missing something, that it couldn’t be this easy. “Cause the guy is dead.”

“Seems that way.” He stared unfocused, obviously working it through, so Ian waited. “I think I might be free, Ian.”

“Fuck,” he whispered and sat the basket on the floor, so he could lean his body against Mickey’s. They stood for a second among the condoms and lube, fingers linked between them, foreheads touching. “Finally.”

They shared one more look before they split apart and headed to the checkout, still processing the news while the cashier scanned each item and dropped them into a bag.

“42.97,” she said with a distracted smile. “Cash or credit?”

Mickey pulled two twenty-dollar bills from his pocket, rubbing his nose once in agitation as he mentally calculated. “Fucking tax. Take out one of the lubes.”

She dug it out of the bag, eyeing the plastic Astroglide container then giving them a long look as she put two and two together. Ian grabbed the bag from her hand before Mickey could decide it didn’t add up to four and lose his shit on her.

While Mickey squared up the payment, Ian walked out into the night, hoping it would prompt Mickey to walk away from whatever was starting to brew between him and the tired girl behind the counter. He felt a vibration in his pocket and Paula’s name appeared on his phone, sending a wave of fury through his body as he stared at his screen.

“Bitch,” Mickey said quietly from where he’d stopped at Ian’s elbow. “Someone needs to throw _her_ from a fucking window.”

As much as Ian wanted to toss the phone to the ground, he punched in his password because he knew that the good news of Mickey’s release from testifying could only be short-lived. After all, it has been 10 minutes since the last fucking problem. Clearly they were due.

But instead of his text messages popping up on the screen, his photo gallery appeared. Six thumbnails of Mickey filled his screen like a mini movie of their ill-fated road trip.

“Jesus,” Mickey said, stepping away and walking toward the bus stop. Ian watched him dig around in his pocket for his smokes and lighter.

After glancing at the latest fucked up text from Paula demanding they be ready for a job tomorrow night, Ian caught up to Mickey at the bench where he sat, blowing smoke into the night sky.

Ian stood a few feet away, tongue tied, unsure what to say and terrified to acknowledge that there was so much to say that he didn’t even know where to begin. So he sat down beside Mickey on the bench, making sure his thigh pressed close. Mickey offered him the half-finished cigarette.

“Thanks.”

“Yeah.”


	15. Episode 7 Recap

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you know, things get a bit rough for our heroes the next few chapters, and this chapter definitely has a different tone. It's Mickey's first meeting with Terry, so you can imagine it's not a happy chapter. 
> 
> As I mentioned in the tags, you can expect most of the memories that haunt the boys to come up (along with few original ones); however, even with the worst of them, I won't go into grave detail. If you prefer a head's up though, pop down to the end notes each chapter to see if there are any trigger warnings.

**Here’s what you missed on the last episode of Shameless…**

**Interstate 90**

Mickey eyed the speedometer as the highway whipped past. It was pushing 2:00am and George was driving too fucking slow. As far as he was concerned, the cops would find it equally suspicious for a vehicle to be under the speed limit at this time of night. If they got pulled over for a breathalyzer, they’d pin half a dozen violations on his ass, including possession of a trunk full of AK-47s, AR-15s and MAC-10s.

“Want me to take the wheel, man?” He nodded at the speedometer and George thankfully accelerated. Mickey had offered to do the driving on their return from Milwaukee in case the guy was tired, but he’d waved Mickey off.

Now that he was a legit free man, he planned to stay that way. The next box they put him in would be the one they put in the ground. If he and Ian had to live off food stamps until his investment paid off, then so fucking be it. This was his last job even if that meant buying the cheap goddamn lube. Most of the world did it and most of the world were idiots, so how hard could it really be to go straight?

“Turn on some tunes,” George said, tapping the steering wheel in a frantic drum beat. “Made that fuckin’ drive from Milwaukee too many times. Startin’ to do it in my fuckin’ sleep.”

Before Mickey could settle on a radio station, George spoke again. “Hey, you hear about Fuentes?”

Mickey tensed up, eyes trained on the upcoming highway exit signs. He didn’t know George from Adam, and the fact that he’d willingly work with Terry didn’t endear him to Mickey. But he couldn’t come up with a reason why he shouldn’t admit he knew the drug lord had been popped in prison. He and Ian had found out by watching a news clip so it was public knowledge.

“Sure.” He settled on an easy rock station and dropped his hand to his lap, feeling the sting where he’d been gnawing on his cuticle.

“Belated birthday present from your Pops,” George announced like it was normal for a father to put out a hit to celebrate his son’s 26th birthday.

Mickey wasn’t buying it though. There’d be more to that story if he chose to find out, but Terry would certainly use it as a way to control Mickey if he let him.

“I was hoping for a pony.”

George chuckled, turning the volume up on the radio, as he took the overpass onto Stevenson and direction of the Milkovich house, where too many damn memories existed. He hadn’t been to the house in almost five years, even longer since he’d laid eyes on his dad, but those memories still felt like yesterday.

He tried to think of a single birthday memory that hadn’t been ruined in some way by his old man. When a particular memory surfaced, his cuticle found its way back into his mouth. He’d tried to bake a cake for his Mom’s birthday, and Mandy had insisted on helping. She had still been really small, so he’d had to lift her up to the kitchen counter and she’d turned into a she-devil whenever he wanted to be the one to stir the ingredients.

But somehow they’d managed to fashion together a cake. He’d stolen a container of vanilla icing from the Kash n Grab along with a package of Love Hearts, and they’d carefully placed the candies on top in an M O M shape, the center letter forming a heart. Mandy had insisted that he read each one of the messages on the candies to her, giving him a weird feeling in his gut as the foreign words rolled off his tongue.

True Love. Kiss Me. All Mine.

She’d insisted on eating the Puppy Love one, and it had been while she was crunching it loudly that the back door swung open.

The rest of the memory was mostly a blur of drunk men. One of them picking Mandy up and making her cry. She had held her arms out for Mickey, but he’d been frozen staring at the cake that his goddamn _Father_ was eating. He had wanted to smash the cake into his mean fucking face but he’d only stood there, angry and silent.

He’d obviously never gotten a pony, and no way in hell did his father participate in offing Fuentes as a way to show his love for his son, even though he’d had some half-assed contact with dear old dad during his time in Mexico. Without Damon as his introduction, Mickey had been forced to use his rep to get set up, which alerted the old bastard to his whereabouts and, basically, put him in his father’s debt.

When he’d rolled on the cartel in Juárez, he’d made sure that it benefited the Sinaloa cartel at least marginally because Terry had been in bed with them to some degree as far back as he could remember. The asshole would see Mickey dead before he crossed the US border if he tarnished their illustrious name within the drug world.

The dark streets began to narrow as they entered the residential area, weaving between cars lined up along the curb. It was all so familiar yet dreamlike. He wasn’t sure that he’d ever really let himself believe he’d be back. Even though the two years in Mexico hadn’t been all bad, it had never felt remotely like home.

At first, he’d been way out of his element, didn’t know a soul, didn’t speak the fucking language, but he did understand the world of guns and drugs--and he was American. This meant that middle class assholes on vacation who would run if they saw him in a Chicago mall found him the safe choice south of the Rio Grande, so Mickey slipped into his job easily.

It had actually been a pretty cushy gig for the most part. Rarely was he expected to rough anyone up, since the idea was that tourists would trust him, and the cartel had a surplus of enforcers. He also wasn’t expected to transport drugs because his pasty ass stood out like a sore thumb. Basically, he’d hung around near tourist spots, making sure fools, including Gay Jesus followers, were willing to pay twice the actual rate for E and other party drugs.

Plus the cartel had discovered quickly that Mickey wasn’t all that interested in sampling the goods, preferring booze when he needed to escape. They’d foolishly started to give him more and more responsibility, which he didn’t hesitate to take advantage of when he’d needed to. Loyalty, in his mind, belonged to family who had his back.

As they passed the Milkovich house, Mickey chewed his thumbnail until it ached. The place hadn’t changed since he was a kid and neither had the hollow feeling in his gut that accompanied any thoughts he had about the place.

The car bounced over the ruts and potholes as they turned into the back alley, headlights flicking across the line of garbage cans until the Milkovich yard came into view. After backing in and cutting the engine, George shot off a text, and several guys exited the back door of the house, heading toward them.

The minute Mickey was out of the vehicle, Joey punched him in the shoulder. Hard. “Little brother! Good to see you.”

“Hey,” Mickey replied halfheartedly, thinking about the shit Sandy mentioned about his brothers creeping on her, but figuring this wasn’t the best time to get into it. “Good to, uh, see you too.”

“Snook,” a deep, assertive voice carried from the back porch. “You got lookout.”

The hair on Mickey’s neck tingled as he faced his father for the first time since their fight outside the Alibi. He could feel those assessing eyes on him and braced for the confrontation, which could come in any number of different forms. It’s how you keep your soldiers in line, balance your affection and cruelty and make sure it’s unpredictable.

Terry fucking knew that he was living with Ian, yet he still expected Mickey to jump right back into running guns and selling dope. The question was why.

“Welcome home, son.”

Every cell in Mickey’s body wanted to tell the motherfucker that this wasn’t his home, but it was late and he was surrounded by men with guns. While tonight wasn’t likely to be the moment the two of them went head to head, he also wasn’t playing any fucking games.

“Glad to be back on the South Side,” he said instead.

“You gonna stand there like a fucking pussy or you gonna give these boys a hand?” Terry chuckled like their life was a fucking sitcom and tossed a pair of AKs in Mickey’s direction. He caught them easily, familiar from a lifetime of handling guns. In fact, briefly, he longed to bury himself in the familiarity of the criminal world, whether it was guns, drugs or, even more enticingly, counterfeiting. But he was done with prison, and he sure as shit was done being separated from Ian. The most he’d do after tonight was skirt the law, not tempt it.

Twenty minutes later, the guns were locked in the basement and a beer was stuffed in his hand. The men sat around the kitchen table, gabbing about bullshit that Mickey tuned out. He needed his cut but recoiled at the idea of asking Terry for anything, even what was owed him. The job had gone off without a hitch so time to pay up, bitch. But he couldn’t get his mouth to form the words.

 _Fuck it_ , he decided and sucked back the rest of his beer as he stood up. The room got suddenly quiet, all eyes on Mickey. It was probably just a coincidence, but to Mickey it felt like a test. He was sick to death of Terry’s tests because he knew they were meant to see if he could break Mickey.

He’d know that forever, including the summer he’d turned twelve and Terry had come home with a case of Miller for himself and cat for Mandy. Or so he’d claimed. The thing spent the afternoon trapped in a box next to Terry’s lawn chair while he sucked back bottle after bottle of beer, tossing the empties at the side of the house.

Mickey had watched off and on from the kitchen window, certain that something bad was going to happen, but the afternoon had dragged on uneventfully.

Until Mandy entered the backyard from the alleyway and Terry stopped her by reaching into the box, mean smile in place. Instinct made Mickey run to the back door, and by the time he got there, the cat was in Terry’s hand.

He’d held it out like an offering, its fur mottled orange and brown. His sister’s hand flew to her mouth in surprise and Mickey stepped out to the porch, forgetting that the backdoor was nearly off its hinges and it slammed into the frame.

The cat reacted. Hissing and jerking, claws coming down on Terry’s hand. He roared drunkenly and Mickey leaped down the stairs, racing across the weed-filled lawn before Terry could hurt the cat. Tears were already leaking from Mandy’s eyes, smearing the dark liner she’d begun to wear that summer.

He threw himself on Terry’s arm, yanking the cat free and tucking it safely against his chest then bracing for the back of Terry’s hand as it connected with his cheekbone. Mickey took it in stride along with the shout calling him a fucking pussy. But as he’d back away, he kept his eyes on his Father’s, even when he had smiled meanly. “Better keep an eye on that pussy too.”

Mandy had started to wail and ran up the stairs to the house, letting the door bang behind her, and Mickey backed away, headed for the gate. He never once dropped his eyes. He might not be able to stand up for himself but he’d be fucked if he was gonna watch his old man hurt something so innocent.

Now here he was, staring into those mean eyes again. He could hear the challenge as though it were spoken aloud. _Pussy_.

“I’m out. Ian’s waiting for me at home,” he announced clearly. “I’ll take my cut now.”

Terry’s face broke into a big ass grin and warning bells went off in Mickey’s head. “Snook, grab my boy his cut.”

Snook hopped out of his chair, heading toward the fridge where he opened the freezer door and pulled out an envelope. “How much?”

“Grand.”

Mickey had _not_ expected that number, not even close, and those warning bells clanged so loud in his head that he almost walked out without the cash, but they fucking needed it. His investment wasn’t going to pay off for at least a week, and Ian was going to run out of pills before that.

Snook counted ten one-hundred dollar bills into Terry’s waiting palm, which he waved in Mickey’s direction. They hadn’t broken eye contact throughout the whole exchange, but instead of building Mickey’s anxiety, he relaxed microscopically.

Something had changed and he struggled to put his finger on it. Terry’s eyes were still windows to his evil soul, but if he wasn’t mistaken, a sliver of fucking _doubt_ had crept into them too.

As Mickey’s fingers reluctantly touched the bills, his father spoke. “See you tomorrow morning, Mick.” When Mickey remained silent, he added, “By 9:00.”

Mickey yanked the bills a little harder than necessary and left the Milkovich house without looking back, unsure what exactly had just happened, but feeling pretty fucking sure that Terry Milkovich was currently the least of his worries.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Mickey has two childhood memories involving Terry. One involves a cat but the cat is safe <3\. Mickey, however, gets a cuff to his face.


	16. Episode 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another long chapter so I'll see you on Friday.  
> No warnings at the end of this one...just a sad Mickey and Ian :(

**Gallagher House**

Ian cracked his eyes open against the early morning sunlight that filtered through the thin bedroom curtains. If either of them ever got paid, he was going to buy new curtains and bedding, make the room comfy for them. It could use some pictures or something to cover the crappy walls. Hell, maybe they could fucking paint them. Before he could start reviewing the color wheel in his head, the arm draped over his waist moved slightly.

He put his nesting plans aside to lift the comforter, immediately spotting the tattooed fingers and several angry looking hangnails where they rested against Ian’s belly. Obviously Mickey had been worrying over something, but the list was too long for him to pinpoint any one worry. Although Ian could definitely pinpoint his own, since Mickey had mysteriously been gone most of the night.

After they’d all finished supper, Ian had been on the phone with Fi discussing how to transfer the gas bill into his name because they were late paying it, and the company would talk only to her. Plus Lip had run to the store for diapers, so Ian had a squawking Fred glued to his chest as he bounced from foot to foot during his phone call.

Mickey and Liam had finished working through a trig question that the boy was stuck on, then Mickey’d mouthed a good-bye to Ian, pointed at the front door and disappeared into the night. Once Ian got off the phone with his sister, he’d texted his boyfriend asking where the fuck he was going, but only got a simple “taking care of shit.” Ian had tried again, sending a long string of question marks. When Mickey replied that it was shit with his dad, Ian decided to drop it. This was a conversation to be had in person not through emojis.

He’d managed to fall asleep despite the fact that Mickey still wasn’t home at midnight, but at some point, his cool skin pressed against Ian’s back, warming quickly as they both drifted off to sleep. Now Ian was awake with a sweaty Mickey passed out behind him.

Deciding the guy owed Ian for his disappearing act last night, he placed Mickey’s hand on his semi-erection, moving it up and down a couple of times then grinning when he felt lips pressing into his back.

“What time did you get home?” Ian whispered, shifting his hips a little and feeling Mickey’s fingers move to cup Ian.

“Dunno. Couple hours ago.”

“Why didn’t you tell me you were planning to see Terry?” Ian asked, attention no longer on his dick but on the fact that they seemed to avoid talking about important stuff too often.

“Why? So you could try to stop me? Or fucking come with me?”

Ian shrugged, unsure where to even begin when talking about the psychotic prick who clearly wasn’t going to let Mickey go without a fight. “Should I be worried?”

“Nope. Went fine.” His fingers tightened, and Ian’s eyes drifted shut again, enjoying the quiet contentment of the moment despite their topic of conversation. “Wanna go to Costco today?”

Ian’s eyes popped open, knowing wherever Mickey got money, he wouldn’t like it even if it ended in them being able to get new sheets. “We gonna rob the place?”

“I got some cash.”

“ _Mickey_ …” Ian flipped over so they were facing each other, erection forgotten.

“It’s cool, Ian. Trust me.” He rubbed a hand over his eyes, blinking at Ian tiredly. “First, we should go for breakfast. Starving.”

Ian stared at him, at the dark circles under his eyes and the slightly chapped lips, deciding this conversation had the stink of Milkovich family business about it. Mickey’s eyes were closed again, and Ian slid his head along the pillow until he could lightly touch their lips. What was done was done, but over breakfast, he’d pester information _and_ a promise out of Mickey.

“Gonna shower and probably jerk off,” Ian decided, stretching slowly, watching Mickey’s gaze as it followed the sheet moving low on Ian’s body.

“‘Kay, wake me up when you’re done.” He flopped onto his stomach, face disappearing into the pillow.

“Or you could help me Christen the new bar of soap,” he whispered into his ear.

Mickey mumbled something, and Ian took pity, rolling over top of him on his way to the bathroom. “Fine,” he paused to admire the curve of his ass through the thin material of the bed sheet, then gave it a quick smack. “I’ll be thinking about you while I come.”

**Outside the Gallagher House**

[Watch “Paula’s dead?” courtesy of Tue](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ho_Kcw6R9jQ)

[Watch “I didn’t kill her” courtesy of Tue](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mMZNh43QbnQ)

_Inhale._

Shit, Ian hissed, stuffing the smoke between his lips and inhaling deeply as Mickey took off down the alley. Whatever word Mickey was thinking of when Ian told him Paula had been thrown from a window, he just fucking hoped it wasn’t homicide.

For the second time today, Ian feared what would happen if they continued to avoid talking about important shit. But something stopped him from following Mickey in order to find out what the fuck was going on. That something was doubt.

_Exhale._

Instead of following, he yelled at Mickey’s retreating back. “We gotta go to the cop shop and give a statement, Mick?” Of course he got no response. “What about our trip to Costco? And your flapjacks?”

All he wanted to do was go to fucking Costco, but apparently that was that too much to ask. Sitting down to eat a goddamn meal with Mickey seemed like an impossible feat as well. One day, he swore, the two them were going on a fucking date and he would kick any ass that got in their way. But first he needed to kick Mickey’s ass.

He shoved the smoke between his lips in frustration when Mickey turned the corner onto 18th Street without looking back, he hoped it wasn’t because the Milkovich house was in that direction.

_Inhale._

Pacing the alley, he acknowledged that while Gallaghers were world class assholes, they didn’t generally kill people. Not intentionally, anyway, and Mickey knew that. How many times had he called blowing up that van a baby felony?

Milkoviches, on the other hand, had a reputation as South Side psychopaths who took matters into their own hands when people crossed them. But shit, Mickey didn’t intentionally kill people either. _She went out a fucking window just like Caleefa_ , the unhelpful voice in Ian’s brain reminded him, and that sounded a lot like a Mickey style plan.

_Exhale._

While having Paula off their backs deserved a party, he wasn’t going to order a cake until he knew what the fuck happened last night because he was really starting to think Mickey had just slyly admitted to killing Paula. And after making Ian promise to play it cool, to come up with a plan.

_Inhale._

Damn it, he’d complained endlessly to Mickey about Paula, making noises about killing her even though he didn’t really know the first thing about pulling off a murder. Other than possibly burying Paula’s body at the quarry, Ian didn’t feel qualified and Mickey fucking knew that, which meant that he was fucking protecting Ian again.

_Exhale._

Mickey needed an alibi, but Ian didn’t even know what time it happened or where else he’d been during the 10 hours he’d been gone. If he would have just told Ian what he was planning, then they could have figured it out together but Mickey always thinks this shit is on him to deal with.

Well, not this time, Ian decided. This time it was _his_ turn to do the protecting. If they were going to be equals in this damn relationship, then it was time for Ian to take care of Mickey.

_Inhale._

He flicked the cigarette butt into a puddle and pulled out his phone, doubting Mickey would pick up if he called. Shit, he needed some fucking advice, but time wasn’t on his side. If they didn’t give a statement soon, the cops would show up at their doorstep again with a fucking warrant.

Heading back toward the house, he figured he’d start where he usually started. Lip had been his confidante their whole lives, all the way back to Ian’s confessions over stealing a set of Matchbox army tanks from the Dollar Tree. Of course, it took him three days of agonizing over whether they were going to arrest him before he fessed up, but Ian had learned that day to trust his brother because he’d known more about stealing than any other six year old in the neighborhood.

_Exhale._

[Watch “I think Mickey killed our PO” courtesy of Tue](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KqOflCmN6Ks)

[Watch “It’s called spousal privilege” courtesy of Tue](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IzpkbAABJnc)

Waving at Officer Baritone, Ian lit his 30th cigarette of the morning, convinced he’d die of lung cancer before ever having to testify against Mickey and save himself the trouble of sorting out all this crap.

Apparently, the choices were to lie like the Gallagher he was or hide behind spousal privilege. Both options freaked him out, but lying held the least appeal because it seemed the most likely to backfire. He’d save it as a last resort. If he was backed into a corner, he’d lie his ass off _after_ he pinned Mickey down long enough to find out exactly what had happened.

So that left the second option, the loophole. He swallowed roughly, tucking the smoke between his fingers, so he could manage his phone. One missed call from Larry Seaver, which surprised him but he had bigger things to worry about than what Mickey’s PO wanted. Plus he low-key thought it might be more shit for them to deal with, so he ignored the guy’s text as he scrolled to Mickey’s name.

 _Hey where r u?_ he typed.

When Mickey didn’t immediately respond, he placed the smoke between his lips to type the second message.

_Meet me at Patsy’s at 11:00._

No bouncing dots appeared and Ian felt his agitation skyrocket. What the fuck was Mickey doing? Why wasn’t he answering? _Come on_ , he muttered.

_Please mick._

**Outside the Milkovich House**

Mickey took the long route to the house he’d spent his childhood trying to get free from. Somehow he kept coming back to it, like he was in a toxic fucking relationship with a pile of rotting 2x4s. The shingles had needed replacing back in the 90s, the windows hadn’t been cleaned since before Mickey got his first boner and the foundation had more crack than the junkies hanging out under the L next door.

Yet here he was again a few hours later, feet dragging as he entered the backyard because as unlikely as it seemed, Ian had basically just admitted to killing Paula.

If he’d known that showing up here last night would give Ian the opportunity to push Paula out a fucking window, he would have stayed the fuck home, but it had never occurred to him that Ian would have the balls to pull off something like this.

During the walk here, he’d gone over every angle of Ian’s threats to kill Paula. It was basically all he’d talked about since Mickey had gotten out of the can, even Googling ways to get the job done, which Mickey had clearly not taken seriously enough.

Most concerning, though, was that Ian might be capable of a lot of shit, but leaving a kid to die was not on the list. He’d sacrifice himself before that happened, and it seemed like the incidents with the dog, the kid and now Caleefa had pushed him too far. _Fuck_ , if Mickey had known that seeing the scrawny parolee fly out a window would give Ian murderous ideas he would’ve gone a different route yesterday.

Keeping Ian out of prison was the name of the game now, which was why he was currently walking up the Milkovich steps. Mickey understood, just as Ian once had, that Terry Milkovich knew the criminal justice system inside and out, and he now needed that expertise to help Ian. If he had to tie himself to his old man for a while longer in order to do that, then he’d fucking do it.

Since his reunion with Terry last night had gone better than he’d expected, he was going to risk bringing up Ian’s name one more time. However, he wasn’t going to forget that his dad was way more concerned with him liking cock than the fact they were blood.

His phone buzzed just as he was about to open the back door. Three texts from Ian popped up almost simultaneously, asking him to meet Ian at Patsy’s at 11:00. Mickey chewed his lip but knew he couldn’t ignore the guy forever.

_Sure._

[Watch “I need to protect him” courtesy of Tue](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8ezesLpC5xY)

**Patsy’s Diner**

[Watch “We should get married” courtesy of Tue](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nf_0SpYWV0c&t=15s)

“What can I get you boys?” the waitress asked as she set two glasses of water on the table between them. She pulled a pen and pad from her apron, while smiling at their joined hands. It left Mickey feeling a little exposed, so he pulled his hand back to his lap and ordered a patty melt with fries. Ian immediately asked for the same.

Alone again, Ian leaned forward, shoulders hunched. The happy smile he’d given Mickey once they’d made their decision to get married had morphed into a nervous fucking tic.

“I Googled stuff and we gotta go to the Clerk’s Office first and fill out forms then go to City Hall tomorrow for the ceremony,” he explained, the words stumbling over each other in his haste to get them all out. “So we gotta avoid giving the cops our statement for 24 hours.”

“Okay,” Mickey agreed and they lapsed into an awkward silence, watching patrons coming and going instead of looking at each other.

The initial excitement had started to wane when the conversation moved away from their reasons for getting married to details about fucking paperwork. He’d had to deal with that same paperwork once before because he hadn’t been able to defy his dad and give Ian what he’d needed. Instead he’d gone through with that goddamn farce, and it had fucked up the fragile thing growing between him and Ian.

No fucking way did he want what they had managed to rebuild to become a piece of paper too, but his feelings wouldn’t bring Paula back from the goddamn grave. Or keep his shithead boyfriend out of the slammer.

Mickey watched Ian’s long fingers twisting his wristwatch over and over. “Costs 60 bucks though,” Ian continued, eyes shooting to Mickey’s. “The marriage license, I mean.”

“I got cash.”

“From your dad?”

Their eyes held for a moment. “I'll make sure to send him the receipt.”

A moment of levity passed between them, but Ian didn’t press for more information about his finances. Probably because he was afraid Mickey would question him further, but at the moment, Mickey didn’t want to know any of the details. The less he knew the less he had to keep from spilling when they eventually got to the cop shop.

“I was thinking,” Ian said, tapping the table with his index finger for the fifth time since they sat down. “We should stop at home, get changed. I don’t wanna do this in my running gear.”

“Thought we were just signing papers today.”

“Sure, but...it’s part of the whole thing. We might want to take a picture or whatever.”

“For the wedding album?” Mickey teased, but it seemed to go over Ian’s head entirely, since he looked nervous as fuck again, eyes darting all around the restaurant. The thought hit him then that maybe Ian was heading toward a manic episode and that’s why he’d killed Paula.

Mickey snagged his sneaker between his own booted feet. “You feeling okay? Fucking tweakin’ man?”

It didn’t take long for Ian to get what Mickey was asking, but he worked through whatever annoyance the question provoked. “I’m fine. Stable,” he said calmly, to prove his point. “It’s been a fucking crazy day, though, and I’m kinda freaking out.”

Murder’ll do that, Mickey thought.

“Two patty melts, with extra fries,” the waitress said. “I overheard the tail end of your conversation and felt like congratulatory fries were in order.”

Ian stuffed a couple of the fries into his mouth, in order to avoid responding. But the food got kind of lodged in his throat making him choke. While he sucked back water, Mickey smiled semi-politely at the waitress.

She bent down a little to stage whisper. “I’m not sure what prompted your decision, but love and trust seem like legit reasons to marry someone. God knows, I’ve done way worse.” With that, she winked and moved to the next booth.

While Ian wondered if he’d be able to eat his sandwich, Mickey didn’t seem to have a problem stuffing his face. Picking at the onions in his burger, Ian decided that the waitress was right. There were worse reasons to get married, and besides they _needed_ to get married because Ian _needed_ to protect Mickey.

At the moment, that need was vibrating in every cell of his body and ruining his appetite. How Mickey was able to calmly eat was beyond him. Was an evening of murder with his psychotic prick of a father just another day at the office?

“You gotta chill the fuck out and eat your patty melt,” Mickey said, shoving Ian’s plate closer like he was a toddler. “Tastes like shit when it’s cold.”

“Right.” Ian picked up his patty melt, swallowing hard then taking a bite. Before he finished chewing, his questions tumbled from his mouth. “How can I chill out? We gotta get fucking married like yesterday and then hope that shit...tows the fucking line, ya know?”

Mickey slowly wiped his lips with the paper napkin, and Ian could tell that his behavior was ruining more than his appetite. It was ruining their brief engagement.

Murder’ll do that, Ian thought.

**Courthouse**

[Watch “You didn’t kill Paula” courtesy of Tue](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D1LYRqOXO5c)

[Watch “Is this the only reason you proposed to me?” courtesy of Tue](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D1LYRqOXO5c)

[Watch “Fucking really, Mickey?” courtesy of Tue](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D1LYRqOXO5c)

**Outside City Hall**

The rear doors slammed shut, locking Ian in the cabin of the ambulance and blocking his view of the street in front of city hall and his view of Mickey. The last image Ian had was of his stony face and crossed arms as he watched the paramedics attach the wooden splint to Ian’s leg in preparation for transport.

It gutted Ian each time he looked at Mickey because it reminded him of the shame and fear that hovered permanently under his skin as he waited for the next crazy thing that would put that devastated look on Mickey’s face. Even when Ian thought he was doing the right thing, the best thing, he still managed to hurt Mickey.

But was it the right thing? He was alone in the back of an ambulance, on the verge of freaking out. Shock was probably setting in because he couldn’t get control of his body. His heart beat erratically, breath coming in short gasps as he worked through the pain in his leg and the panic over Mickey refusing to stay with him.

“Vicodin. Gotta manage the pain.” One of the paramedics appeared beside him, and Ian accepted the two pills, swallowing them dry and longing for the narcotic to hit his system.

“Thanks, Sam.”

“Tibial shaft fracture.”

“Figured,” Ian breathed hard as the EMT began to pack his secured leg with ice, a wave of dizziness making him clammy.

“The guy, Mickey I think, said you fell down the stairs,” Sam explained, having a seat in the captain’s chair and swiveling toward the stretcher where Ian partially reclined. His dark eyes assessed Ian closely. “Doesn’t sound like you, man. You rubbed your athletic ass in everyone’s face at that baseball fundraiser.”

Ian watched Sam’s full lips smile but couldn’t follow his words. “Did he leave?”

“Secured,” Sam yelled at his partner and the engine started. “Did who leave?”

“Mickey.” He had to force it through a tight throat, dry from pills and shallow breathing. His thoughts were racing with images from the last half hour, looping between Mickey’s face when Ian dropped the pen and the feel of his body hitting the cement steps.

“Oh. Yeah,” he said, draping a fleece blanket over Ian’s torso when he started to shake a little from delayed shock.

“D-did he s-say anything?” A shiver traveled through his body emanating from his lower leg when Sam tapped his heel.

“Tibial nerve check.”

Ian nodded vaguely. “I feel it.”

“Good.” He snapped the stethoscope ear pieces into place and pressed the chestpiece against Ian’s knee briefly before continuing. “He said he was gonna take off since you and I knew each other. Guess he figured you were in good hands”

Ian could feel his chin wobble a little as hurt welled up in his chest. “He just needs time to cool off,” he whispered, noticing for the first time that his work pants were cut up then remembering that he likely no longer had a job, any job and certainly not that one. Irrationally, he started to think about where he could find a job and who would hire him with a broken leg.

“Ian?”

“What?” he blinked, focusing on Sam’s dark eyes and how they seemed to be asking him something.

“Was he mad about something?” he asked, laying a firm hand on Ian’s bicep. “Hey, is this something we need to talk about?”

“Why?” Ian was suddenly tired and just wanted to close his eyes, but Sam’s blue gloved fingers pressed almost painfully into Ian’s arm, keeping him focused.

“Ian, did he push you?”

Yanking his arm free, Ian hissed at his former study buddy. “Course not. He _loves_ me.”

Sam sucked his lower lip, obviously choosing his words. “Look, Ian, we see a lot of shit on the job, so you know why the fuck I’m asking.”

They stared at each other for a couple of tense moments, and Ian fought back the goddamn waterworks that had been threatening since Sam had closed the rig’s doors. He broke the eye contact, shifting his gaze to the line of defibrillator paddles. The child-size set kicked his heart into high gear again as more memories hit him. One of the tears he’d been fighting slipped down his cheek, and he aggressively swiped at it.

“Ian,” Sam’s voice was soft now, making it all that much worse. “We know better than most that love doesn’t stop people from hurting each other.” Sam released the lap belt, so he could move into Ian’s personal space again. “Let me see that shiner.”

Ian swatted his fingers away as they closed in on his face. “Fuck off. I said he fucking loves me.”

“Fine,” Sam said, lifting his gloved hands in surrender.

“Fine,” Ian repeated, tugging his phone from his jacket pocket. He shot Sam a hostile look before blinking several times to focus his eyes on the password request. Once he was in, he swiped into his chat with Mickey.

_Getting a fucking patty melt._

It seemed inconceivable that it had been sent only four hours ago, and even more inconceivable that four hours before that they’d been so fucking happy. Why couldn’t they get a fucking break? He had to swipe at his eyes again to see the keyboard properly.

“Ian,” Sam tried again. “Maybe--”

“And I fucking love him too.” His mind started to race again, this time with how he’d never be able to make Sam understand. No matter how Ian explained his and Mickey’s history, his friend would just think the worst. He’d tried to explain it before and been misunderstood, pitied. The only person who understood them, who understood Ian, was mad at him.

Ignoring Sam, he refocused on his phone, struggling to hit the tiny squares on his keyboard properly.

 _I love you,_ he typed and sucked back tears. _r u meeting me at the hospital?_

As the minutes ticked by without a response, the Vicodin hit his system dulling the pain in his leg and his heart. When the ambulance turned into County General’s emergency entrance, Ian sent one last attempt to make peace.

And I’m sorry.

Realizing that no one would be waiting when he arrived, he pocketed his phone, closing his eyes and allowing fatigue to do its thing, while Sam and the driver unhooked his stretcher and wheeled him into the hospital.

The admitting room nurse confirmed Ian’s ID then thanked the paramedics as she prepared him for a trip to x-ray.

Sam’s voice shook Ian from his stupor. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

Sighing, Ian opened tired eyes. His left one ached and they both started to sting again. “Look, I’m not gonna be able to convince you, but I’ve known him since we were kids, and...fuck, if anyone here is the asshole, it’s fucking me.”

“Okay, man.” Sam touched his arm, but this time, it was more friendly. “I hope you both figure your shit out then because people who love each other shouldn’t do that.” His gloved fingers lightly touched Ian’s cheekbone. “Under any circumstances, Ian.”

“I could write a fucking book on what people who love each other _shouldn’t_ do.” He put his best effort into a smile, hoping to ease Sam’s mind. “What I need is a book on what people who love each other _should_ do.”

Sam’s partner called to him from the emergency room doors, and Sam patted Ian’s arm again. “Why don’t you contact me when you’re feeling better. I’ve been married for a few years, so I got some thoughts on the matter. We could get a beer.”

Ian studied his face, looking for ulterior motives, but remembered how decent the guy was while they’d been prepping for the EMT exam. “Yeah, I’m down for that, Sam.”

Two hours later, Liam’s face appeared between the space in the emergency room curtains. “Hi Ian,” he said, giving Ian a thorough once over as he entered the space, pausing on the drying cast that covered Ian’s lower leg. “Can I be the first to sign it?”

“Sure,” Ian smiled tiredly. “I don’t have a marker handy though.”

“They should come with the cast.”

Ian nodded. “True. Debs waiting downstairs?”

“Yeah, so we don’t have to pay for parking.” Liam propped a hip on the narrow bed. “Where’s Mickey?”

He watched Ian, waiting for an explanation, but Ian couldn’t get out any words. During trips to x-ray and filling out endless forms, he’d tried to figure out what exactly had gone wrong between finding out Paula had been pushed out a window and Ian ending up in a splint in the back of an ambulance.

The spousal privilege, the lunch date, the hasty decision to get married, the news about Paula’s murder, then, finally, the goddamn marriage license. Ian was going to sign it, he really was, even though his nerves were fucking frayed after the nightmare of a day he’d had thinking his boyfriend needed an alibi for murder, but then he’d looked, really looked, at the completed application.

Father: Frank Gallagher. Mother: Monica Gallagher.

Seeing those words had shot fear straight up his spine, that whole fight or flight shit had kicked in, and he’d needed just one damn minute to think. But he’d looked at Mickey and _fuck_. The awful hurt had slid off his face and cold resignation replaced it. Ian knew then he’d fucked up, but it was too late because Mickey was already out the door.

“Ian?”

Liam’s voice shook him out of his thoughts. “What?”

“I asked where Mickey was.”

Ian watched his brother run his small hand along Ian’s forearm, until it rested on his clenched fist. Their skin in such contrast despite their brotherly bond. Ian relaxed his fingers and turned his hand over, linking his fingers with his Liam’s and smiling at the boy.

“Yeah, um, he’s...not here.”

Liam smiled in return. “I have the eyes of a young man, so I was able to figure that out pretty quickly.”

“Smart ass,” he laughed, which pulled him out of his funk enough to realize that his cast was set, so it was probably time to get ready to go home. “Pass me my coat. It’s on the chair.”

With a bit of maneuvering, they got Ian’s arms into the jacket. He tried not to dwell on how much of a challenge the next six weeks were going to be.

“You do that a lot,” Liam said quietly.

“Do what? Pass me my right shoe.”

Liam did as he was asked, watching Ian attempt to bend his good leg to get his shoe on but his arms weren’t long enough. “Fuck.”

“Let me help, since I’m here and all.” He gave Ian a patronizing look, and Ian poked him in the ribs. “Anyway, you don’t answer questions.”

That low-level panic returned. “You asked if you could sign my cast, and I said yes.”

Liam stepped away from the bed but said nothing, just watched Ian. Guilt mingled with the panic because Ian knew he kept shit to himself, and while that was the way he preferred it, Liam of all the Gallagher kids was the one who fell through the cracks. Really fell through and maybe Ian needed to fucking step up. He’d been content to watch from the sidelines as Fi raised the rest, but now he seemed to be the only one left. Even though Liam was pretty self-sufficient--and reminded Ian of himself in some ways--he was still only ten. The kid needed a damn parent not a tight-lipped brother.

“He’s mad at me.”

Liam watched him closely. “That why you got a black eye?”

Inhaling, he nodded. “Yeah.”

“Did you deserve it?”

Ian chewed his lip a little harder than intended. Did his first parenting moment have to be around such a confusing fucking topic? Of course, it fucking did because their lives were never anything but confusing.

“Well, does anyone ever deserve to get hit?” he began, unsure where to go next and kind’ve hoping Liam would guide the conversation.

“Frank deserved to get hit when he called DCFS on us.”

“What?” Ian’s eyes widened in shock. “How’d you know about that? You were a baby.”

Liam shrugged. “Fiona told me before she left.”

Suddenly, Ian had all kinds of topics to deal with: parental issues, relationship issues and maybe most importantly, abandonment issues. Had anyone even spoken to Liam about Fiona leaving? She had to feel more like his mother than his sister.

“Why the hell would she tell you that?” Ian asked.

“Cause she was trying to give me important life lessons, like don’t mess around with a woman’s heart and don’t ever trust Frank.”

“Well, that Frank advice is fucking solid. Follow it.” Patting the bed, he encouraged his brother to get closer. “Okay, so, as a general rule, you keep your hands to yourself, but sometimes, the situation warrants a good fucking punch in the face.”

“So this,” he paused to tap Ian’s cheekbone, “warranted it?”

“Yeah but...” he tried to wrangle his thoughts into something coherent, “only because that’s how me and Mickey communicate sometimes.”

“Is that a good way to communicate?”

“No.” He put all his conviction into the single syllable because he hoped to pass on better communication methods to his little brother.

“So now you’re not talking at all?”

“Relationships are hard work, kid.”

Nodding, his finger traveled down to Ian’s cast. “What about that?”

“Total accident.”

Apparently satisfied, Liam moved on. “Okay, ready to go? Debbie is gonna start texting any minute. Patience is not her strong suit.”

Ian chuckled and his phone vibrated, buzzing against the little side table. He nearly fell out of bed in his haste to grab it, but it slid from his nervous, Vicodin-riddled hands. It hit the floor and he cursed, but thankfully, Liam retrieved it just as it started to ring again.

“Mickey!” he breathed, swallowing against the sudden dryness.

“You okay?”

Ian listened for every nuance, analyzing them like a fucking computer looking for anything that would tell him they were okay, but the words were clipped and mostly emotionless.

“Leg’s in a cast,” he explained.

“Are you okay?” He repeated, and Ian could hear an exhalation. Smoking outside somewhere.

“I...I guess, yes. I’m on pain meds, so yeah.”

“That okay with your other meds?”

Ian’s heart squeezed a little because no matter what he always fucking cared, and Ian hoped, rightly or wrongly, that his feelings for Ian would sway him into forgiving him.

Inhaling to calm his nerves, he glanced at Liam who was watching him again. “Sure, Vicodin is fine for a couple of days then I switch to a non-steroidal anti-inflammatory.”

“Good,” Mickey said and they fell into an awkward silence with Ian slowly freaking out because he didn’t know what to say. He was in this predicament because he had insisted that he and Mickey talk about shit, but that was clearly was not what Mickey had in mind. “I’m...sorry you fell. That was a fucking mistake. So I’m sorry.”

“I know it was a fucking accident,” Ian said hastily, wanting above all for him to know that Ian understood what happened, and most importantly, why it happened.

“Good.” He released another puff of smoke, and Ian could see his face so clearly that tears pricked the back of his eyes. He loved that goddamn face. “Still fucking sorry, Ian.”

Hearing his name was too much and the tears threatened to fall. Closing his eyes, he rested his head on the stiff pillow and willed Mickey to be reasonable.

“Are you going to meet me at home?” Ian asked, wanting to get the question out before Mickey hung up.

“I’ll pay your ambulance bill and shit. Just, uh, text me when you know how much. I’ll take care of it.”

The call ended abruptly, leaving Ian to stare at the screen in shock and wonder if there was even a tiny chance Mickey would pick up if he called. “Fuck.”

“What happened between you guys?” Liam asked.

Ian tapped his screen, scrolling up their text messages to the picture of Mickey in his Old Army outfit. “Misunderstanding.”

Liam pushed into the side of the bed to see the picture. “Woah, pink?”

Ian zoomed in on Mickey’s face, to the amused expression, then he stuffed the phone in his jacket pocket.

“He’s upset because we were going to get married and now we’re not.” He looked at his watch in frustration. His cast was set and he needed to get out of here before he started losing his shit again.

“Why?”

“Why were we getting married or why are we not?”

“Yes.”

“Spousal privilege,” he began, willing his brain to calm the fuck down and focus on his brother. “That’s when--”

“Yeah, I heard’ve it.”

“You have?” He looked suspiciously at Liam.

“Sure, I wasn’t born yesterday. So you needed to cover for him because he committed a crime?” He watched Ian calmly, always so calmly, making Ian wonder if anything ever ruffled this kid’s feathers.

“Yeah.”

Liam shook his head. “Doesn’t work if the crime happened before you’re married.”

“ _What?_ ”

“Didn’t you google it?”

“No, I thought my source was solid.” Had Officer Baritone been shitting him? The frustration was starting to choke Ian. They’d done all this for fucking nothing. He would have had to testify against Mickey anyway.

“So why didn't you get married?”

Ian dropped his head against the pillow, staring up at the ceiling, not sure if he wanted to laugh or cry. “Cause Mickey didn’t kill anyone.”

“That’s good,” Liam agreed. “Are you mad he didn’t kill anyone?”

Ian laughed, running his hands down his face. “No, Liam.”

“So you changed your mind because you didn’t want to marry him?”

“I didn’t _change_ my mind. I--” His thoughts hit a wall.

“Cause you don’t love him?”

“Jesus, yes, of course I love him,” Ian snapped at the surprised boy. “Sorry, yes, it’s got nothing to do with love.”

“It doesn’t? I thought that’s why people got married. Cause they love each other.”

“Yes, no, I don’t know!” Ian ran his hands up through his hair, trying to stop his overwrought thoughts from controlling him. “It’s not that simple.”

“Okay,” Liam agreed after a moment’s thought. “Makes sense. I don’t know anyone who’s married, so it must be a lot of work.”

Really fucking tired now, Ian nodded. It was a lot of work. In fact, a lot of work didn’t even begin to describe it. Marriage sucked. It ruined shit. Why fuck up something good with that shitshow? As the thoughts tumbled over each other, he let them take root.

“It is,” he decided.

The curtains parted and the nurse who’d helped him earlier appeared. “How are you feeling?” she asked, touching his cast.

“Okay, I guess.”

She nodded, eyes on the clipboard in her hand. She took a moment to write something down before speaking. “Looks like you’re good to go, and I see your young chauffeur is here to escort you,” she smiled adoringly at Liam.

“The actual chauffeur is downstairs waiting. I’m more of a middleman,” he flirted. “It’s kinda my specialty.”

If she wasn't smitten before, she sure was now. “I’m sure that...your brother?”

“Yes,” Liam agreed.

“I'm sure he’s in good hands.”

Liam nodded confidently, and Ian wondered if it might be Liam who ended up raising him and not the other way around.

The nurse held her clipboard out to Ian, pointing at the page with her ballpoint pen. “Sign here and you’re free.”

Ian swallowed, staring blindly at the form until his brother’s small hand patted his shoulder. “It’ll be okay, Ian.”

**Kelly’s Tavern on South Wallace**

Mickey ended the call, leaning back into the clapboard siding of the old bar and releasing smoke into the night sky. He was surprised to see every street light on Wallace lit, certain that not even half of them were lit his whole childhood. The rest of the street looked like shit, and Kelly’s Tavern hadn’t had a reno this millennia so at least some things never changed.

Running out of ways to distract himself from his thoughts, he flicked the smoke into the street and texted his cousin. When he re-entered the tavern, he ordered a round of drinks from the aging biker behind the bar before hunkering into the most secluded booth in the joint to halfheartedly watch a couple dudes play pool. Some twangy country singer was complaining about his cheating girl, and Mickey emptied two shot glasses down his throat.

That left two draft beers, which he knew wasn’t going to be enough to drown out the thoughts, so he caught Kelly’s eye and motioned for two more shots. Less than a half hour later, Sandy slid into the booth, shoving her old leather jacket over her shoulders.

“Hey.”

When she grabbed his remaining beer and finished it, he smiled a little. “Make yourself at home.”

“How far in are you?” Her chin pointed in the direction of his empties.

“Four shots and two beer.”

“Shit, you been here a while, huh?”

“Half hour.”

“Oh, it’s like that?” She studied his face, so he gave her the finger. “I better catch up, then. Next round’s on me.” Wiping her mouth, she slid out of the booth. “Was that Bud?”

He nodded. “On tap.”

“And Fireball?”

“Sure.”

She headed up to the bar, while he stared off into space like he’d been doing since he’d hung up on Gallagher. He’d fucked up by decking the asshole, but man he’d been so fucking angry that Ian would ask Mickey how he fucking felt. He could feel the anger rising again just thinking about how fucking humiliated he’d felt knowing that Ian wanted to marry him for no other reason than to protect him.

So he’d _shown_ Ian how he felt, exactly how he’d felt because there was nothing left to say. Except now he had to live with what he’d done. He had to live with seeing Ian lifted onto that stretcher, hearing him moan each time they touched him, knowing he was at fault.

It wasn’t like they hadn’t ever gotten physical with each other. Shit, they’d started this whole fucking relationship by getting in each other’s space. They’d even solved shit with their fists, but this was different. He’d wanted to _hurt_ Ian. Make him feel half of what Mickey felt.

And because of that Ian was in emergency getting a fucking cast.

“Fuck,” he spat as Sandy sat two glasses of beer on the table and slid back into the booth.

“Kelly’s bringing the shots.” After downing half her beer, she leaned in. “What’s up?”

He looked away, watching the bar owner ID a couple of chicks who’d just arrived then fiddle around with some shot glasses. Before he could formulate any response, his phone buzzed with an incoming text, and they both looked at the screen where it sat between them on the table.

Ian’s name appeared, and their eyes met.

“Not gonna check it?”

Shaking his head, Mickey tossed back some beer, while Kelly dropped off the four shots of Fireball. Sandy slid one over to Mickey, picked up hers and waited for him to join her. As the cinnamon whisky burned its way down his throat, she licked her lip ring and picked up his phone.

“Password?”

That last shot had pushed him over a threshold where his brain was both hazy and intensified. He was having trouble holding onto his thoughts but when they arrived, they arrived with a vengeance. “BIGRED,” he snarled.

She threw her head back as she laughed with pleasure, and Mickey retaliated by drinking half her beer before remembering he was walking a line here between drunk and hammered. Snatching the beer back, she entered his password. While her fingers worked his phone, he reached for the next shot, pulling it across the table for something to do. A moment later she dropped the phone to the table and downed her second whisky.

“Did you end up getting your patty melt?”

He nodded, teeth clenched in anger thinking about that fucking lunch date, how fucking happy he’d been over the idea of marrying the shithead. Like they were finally going to be 100% on the same page.

“Gonna be an expensive night,” she said. “I got shit at home we can drink for free.”

“I’d rather be stone cold sober than see Terry’s fucking face.”

“He’s gone again. We got the AKs ready, so he took off with Snook. Back tomorrow night.”

Mickey sipped his beer, feeling a slight tilt to the room and thinking back to the last time he’d gotten pissed. In prison because he’s missed Gallagher. This led to wondering how the hell Gator was doing with his fancy ass prison hooch, whether he’d worked through the acidity issue he’d blabbed on about all night. A wave of melancholy hit him, thinking about the actual fucking friends he’d started to make in the joint.

Sandy tapped his foot. “Wanna move this party back to the house?”

“Yeah, sure,” he decided. “Probably a good idea. Need a place to sleep anyway.”

“Tell me what happened.”

He shrugged. “Fell in love with an asshole.”

She hummed a little, pulling her knee up to her chest to pick at the threads on her ripped jeans, but she refrained from saying I told you so. “You’re gay. Seems inevitable.”

Snorting, Mickey tapped the coaster on the table. “Well, I got a winner.”

“Yup, he’s the worst.”

Mickey’s eyes narrowed, jaw clenching as his natural inclination to protect the asshole kicked in. She laughed again.

“So let me get this straight, neither of you popped your PO but you almost got hitched, then he ended up breaking his leg somehow,” she said. “And now you’re here getting shitfaced. Alone. Instead of babying his ass at the hospital.”

He finished off his beer.

“I’m gonna go out on a limb and guess that you _wanted_ to marry him even though he’s an asshole.”

He shrugged again.

“I know a yes when I see one. So why didn’t you get married?”

Because too many fucking memories had exploded in his brain when Ian paused just as the pen touched the marriage license. It had unleashed every goddamn fear that he’d tried to ignore, and hearing Ian bitch about his fucking parents--while Mickey’s heart was fucking breaking--was just too fucking much.

“Mick?” Sandy dragged him back to the present, to the endless whining from the country singer and the concern in her brown eyes.

“Didn’t need spousal privilege cause he found out I didn’t kill Paula.”

She nodded slowly, putting it together. “Hold up. He thought _you_ did it?”

“Apparently thinks I’m prone to murder.”

“Shit, really?” she spat. “Was he able to name one person you popped?”

“Fuck no.”

“Yeah, you might be related to Terry and Randi, but that doesn’t mean you’re a killer.”

“‘specially not these days. I’m a fucking Boy Scout,” he paused. “Speaking of, how’s my product?”

“No hassles crossing the border. Expecting payment soon, and they’re talking about wanting a second shipment within the month.”

“Good. Real good.” He threw the coaster down and held up his final shot waiting for Sandy to do the same. Once the burning subsided and the warmth began to soothe the ache in his gut, he added, “Gonna need you to get some of that money to Gallagher. He’s only got a week’s worth of meds left, and no job now.”

“Speaking of, did you see you got a text from Do-Gooder Larry?” When he made a grab for the phone, she pushed it aside. “You can look later, just mentioned that you got a shift tomorrow afternoon at Old Army.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah, he said you still got your job.”

“They probably want us to keep quiet about Paula’s scams, especially about all the people who didn’t get proper medical attention.”

“Sounds like you could milk this situation.”

Even after everything that happened, his first thought was how they could use the situation to make sure that Ian got a job that made him happy.

“Fucking Gallagher,” he mumbled, fighting the urge to lay down in the booth and sleep for year.

“Agreed. Remind me to stay away from those assholes,” Sandy smirked. “Let’s get the fuck outta here before I have to carry your sorry ass home.”

The cool night air was both refreshing and worrying as his blood alcohol level became apparent. Blinking into the bright light above his head, he felt a smoke get tucked between his lips and inhaled when flame touched the end of it.

Exhaling, he eyed his cousin. “Why are all the street lights working?”

“Some punk ass vigilantes threatened a politician or some shit.”

“Cool.”

“So you gonna fill in the blanks? You didn’t kill the bitch and that’s why Ian _doesn’t_ want to marry you?” She nudged him toward Zemansky. “He likes a bad boy, does he?”

Silence stretched out for half a block, until Sandy stopped abruptly. He considered not stopping but he’d invited her to this party so he was stuck with her.

“Turns out he knew about that spousal privilege shit too.”

“Then he found out you didn’t pop ‘er and he backed the fuck out.” She whistled lowly. “Asshole.”

“Yeah.”

She resumed walking. “Mick, you ever gonna be free of him?”

His guts twisted, almost painfully. He shrugged but stayed focused on his smoke.

“That’s what I thought.” They’d turned onto his street, which didn’t help his guts improve, but no lights appeared to be on in the old house. “What’s his fucking problem anyway?”

“Dunno, said he was scared we’d turn out like his shithead parents then wanted to know how I fucking felt”

“How you _felt?_ ” she spat.

“Yeah, like I didn’t literally show him. All the fucking time.”

“So what’d you say?”

“Nothing. I decked him.”

“Nice.”

Mickey didn’t really agree, since it’d solved nothing and in fact made matters worse. A hell of a lot worse. “I didn’t fucking judge my aim properly and he fell down the fucking courthouse stairs.” He winced remembering how Ian’s body hit the cement steps. When he’d seen the way Ian held his injured leg, knowing there was some damage, he’d almost, _almost_ , agreed to listen to what he had to say.

But Ian had turned whiter than usual as he’d tried to move his leg. Once he’d caught his breath, he’d asked Mickey to call an ambulance because he was pretty sure his leg was fractured. He’d spent the next few minutes helping Ian keep his leg stable and watching for the ambulance.

“So just to confirm,” Sandy said as she opened the gate and waited for him to half stumble into the yard. “You won’t consider cutting your losses? Just snip, snip. No more Ian fucking Gallagher.”

He flicked his smoke at the Milkovich hellhole, hoping irrationally that a wayward spark would start the place on fire, and ignored Sandy’s question. He knew the fucking answer, but it didn’t mean that he was going to be given the choice. If Ian didn’t fucking step up, then maybe he was going to have to _snip, snip_.

They entered the quiet house. The living room was dark, and Mickey just stood in the middle of it, hating his life.

“Looks like we got the place to ourselves,” she said, throwing her jacket on the arm of the sofa before heading to Mandy’s old room and emerging with a bottle of Hennessy. “Yum.”

Mickey dropped to the sofa, head rolling along the back, while she scrounged up a couple of clean glasses and filled them with brandy. Sipping slowly, she curled up beside him on the couch, knees tucked into the side of his thigh.

“You gonna try to take advantage of me?” he asked when she stuffed the glass into his hand.

“Fuck off,” she laughed. “I haven’t done that since we were toddlers. Drink your brandy, bitch.”

“What’s this, Buckingham fucking Palace?” He sipped it but didn’t actually want to get more fucked up since he was pretty fucking sure it would only end in him either blabbing about his feelings or, worse, expressing those feelings to fucking Ian via text message.

“Stole it from some chick I was banging when I found out she was cheatin’.”

“Sucks.”

“Nah, I was cheatin’ too.” She waved off his attempt to show concern. “No big deal, wasn’t serious. Not everyone finds their fucking soulmate at 16. Shit, look around, Mick. Most people never fucking do. Miserable sacks of shit everywhere.”

She tossed her brandy back and refilled. While Mickey played with his glass, she sat forward, crossing her legs to get closer. “Look, I don’t give a shit if you love the fucker cause everyone’s an asshole sometimes, but fuck, it’s painful to see it go down, ya know?”

“Yeah, it sucks from this angle too.”

“You _really_ sure you wanna go through this again?” she asked quietly. “Could cut ‘n run now. Pull him off like a band-aid.”

Mickey ran a knuckle over his eye socket. “Maybe.”

“Maybe?” She almost choked on her booze. “Bullshit.”

“Well, fuck, obviously I don’t want that, Sandy. But...I’m not going back until…” He didn’t know how to finish that because he didn’t know what he needed, other than for Ian to fucking be there for him. Maybe he’d never be and that fucking destroyed Mickey.

But Sandy nudged him with her knee, prompting him to continue. “Until he?” After some silence, she started peppering him with options. “Gets his head outta his ass? Grows a pair? Stops fucking around?”

“Sure.”

“Makes sense. How ya gonna know when that happens? You gonna talk this shit out with him?”

Mickey sat up so quickly that he stomach stayed behind. Shaking it off, he spat, “No. Fucking. Way. We’re done talking.”

“Ohhhkay, we’re making progress. None of that talking bullshit,” she chirped. “Talking is never recommended for repairing relationships anyway.”

He glared at her. “Well, it’s not repairing this one, so fuck off. Not listening to his boo hoo shit. Tried to talk my goddamn ear off in jail too.”

“Got it. So then what’s he gotta do if he’s not allowed to bullshit his way back into your pants.” She snapped her fingers at his jeans, missing his junk by a couple inches.

“The fuck, Sandy!”

She laughed, refilling her brandy again. “Chill out. I was just getting your attention. We need a drinking game,” she decided. “The ‘How Can Ian fucking Gallagher Get Back in Mickey’s Pants’ drinking game.”

He opened his eyes, blinking at the low lighting coming from the hallway.

“For every idea we come up with, we drink.” She took a long guzzle. “I get one for coming up with the game idea.”

Mickey felt a rumble in his chest, and he flicked a finger at her tit missing the nipple by an inch. She smacked her glass against his. “Now that’s the fucking spirit. You may hate your old man, but you’re still a fucking Milkovich, bitch.”

He saluted her and they relaxed against the sofa back, staring at the picture window. “Open the fucking curtains,” he said. They never had the curtains open growing up, always too busy hiding, hiding, hiding.

“Yeah, sure.” She hopped up, giving them a yank and coughing as dust flew in all directions. “Well, fuck.”

Once she settled back, they both released a sigh as the moon and maybe even a star twinkled at them through the dirty front window.

“So what do you want the asshole to do then? Gimme something to work with here.”

What the fuck did he want? He certainly knew what he didn’t want, but all he could really say for sure was that he wanted to fucking feel secure, safe with the guy. He used to push Mickey for even a scrap of commitment. Now he spooked every time Mickey tried to lock him down. His head was too cloudy to figure that shit out though, so he just answered vaguely. “To fight for me. Like he used to.”

“Before you came out? And changed my fucking life.”

“Shut up.”

“Whatever. Ya big old ‘mo.” But she let it drop, saving that conversation for another time. “So you want him to, what? Literally fight someone for you?”

“Maybe.” He imagined that for a moment. Ian beating up some dude to get with Mickey. “Sure.”

She nudged his glass with her own. “Drink.” He dutifully sipped.

“He could put a bullet in Terry’s head?”

“Jesus, you’re vicious. No jail time, Sandy.”

She pouted a little but didn’t lift her glass. “Maybe he could rent one of those airplanes with an ‘I love Mickey Milkovich’ banner flapping behind it.”

He lifted his glass to his grinning lips, and she joined him.

“Romantic sap. Were you planning your wedding while you waited in the courthouse?” she teased but quickly changed the subject when he closed his eyes. “Oh, I got it! He could have you kidnapped!”

She didn’t wait for his agreement, just tipped her glass draining it completely. “Man, that was so much fucking fun. I wish I could’ve seen his face before we got the bag over his head. He was cursing up a storm, ready to fucking kill someone.”

Mickey had gotten to see his face clearly, after so fucking long without seeing it. They’d stood motionless on either side of the bleachers, absorbing each other and Ian had seemed almost glad to see him. It made Mickey want to throw himself physically at Ian, yearning for his attention and the only comfort he’d ever known.

“Did he ever figure out it was us?” she asked, interrupting yet another trip down painful-memory lane.

“Had to tell him who helped me, so he’d shut up about it.”

“He should’ve thanked you for making it look like an actual kidnapping instead of aiding and abetting.” While she refilled their glasses, he continued to picture Ian’s face under those bleachers. He’d wanted Mickey, that much was obvious. It hadn't really surprised him since wanting each other had never been the problem.

“You’re always protecting his ass and he just bitches about.”

“You know how to hold a fucking grudge,” he said. “It’s been like five years, Sandy.”

“That bitch deserved to get kidnapped,” she spat. “No one pulls my hair and gets away with it.”

“ _Pfft_. What’d you expect? You were sleeping in my bed.”

“Just fucking sleeping, Mick. I was bagged. That juvie stint was a rough one. They ride your ass when you’re in for assault,” she complained. “I needed to fucking sleep without having to keep one eye open.”

“Didn’t turn out that way, did it?” he smirked.

“How was I supposed to know that redheaded she-devil was gonna get home at four in the fucking morning and toss me out of your bed.”

“If you’d’a just let him, it would’ve been fine. Why’d you have to fight him?”

“Told you, I was tired and probably still rabid from 9 months in that shithole.”

He pictured Ian hissing at a 15 year old Sandy that only one person was allowed to sleep next to Mickey and she wasn’t it. When she’d tried to ignore him, Ian had grabbed a handful of her curly hair and pulled her bodily out of the bed. Mickey had watched it all in half horror, half amusement, unsure which one of them was more batshit crazy. They both had smudged black eyeliner and wild unkempt hair, but Ian had been more determined, slamming the bedroom door behind her and glaring angrily at Mickey.

He wanted _that_ Ian back.


	17. Episode 8 Recap

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go...I've made sure to include LOTS of good stuff so these next two episodes are more meaningful. As well, for episodes 9 and 10, I am going to put the symbol *** if we are coming to a part with Byron that might feel uncomfortable then you can skip to the end of the scene and not have to read it.
> 
> Today's chapter is quite short, but tomorrow is another long one.

**Here’s what you missed on the last episode of Shameless…**

**Yorktown Center Shopping Mall**

With his mango pineapple smoothie in hand, Mickey had a seat at one of the free tables near Orange Julius. He slurped deeply, eyes scanning the food court for something to eat. His gut was still a little tender from his drinking contest with Sandy last night, so he was taking it easy.

They’d come up with a solid list of ways for Ian fucking Gallagher to get back into Mickey’s pants, but he was still fucking miserable, which just pissed him off. He pushed back in the hard ass chair with a huff and inadvertently made eye contact with some dude.

Thinking the punk would get one look at Mickey and flee, he stared back, openly and directly. But to his utter amazement, the guy smiled coyly, even did some shit with his eyelashes that had Mickey glancing around the food court for the hidden fucking camera.

When he looked back, the guy was ordering some noodles from Noodle Shack, and Mickey returned his attention to his smoothie and his shit life. He was on his dinner break with three more hours of chasing bitches around the mall to take back cheap shit that Old Army forced poor fuckers in other countries to produce for next to nothing. Talk about fucking theivery.

A pair of shiny black lady boots stopped at his table, and he lifted his eyes to meet the owner’s. The guy was now standing in front of Mickey, smiling shyly.

“Is this seat taken?” he asked with a bit of catch in his breath.

“Why? Something wrong with all the other seats?”

“Uh,” he stuttered. “No, I just thought...sorry!”

He took off like he’d been bitten, and Mickey shook his head but the guy only moved two tables away. It still felt way too intimate for Mickey, so he looked over intending to intimidate the punk into finding a table in a different fucking shopping mall.

This time though, Mickey looked at him, like really looked at him, especially at his hair. It wasn’t exactly the same shade as Ian’s, missing most of the highlights and it didn’t catch the light, but it was close enough. Not like he was going to run his goddamn fingers through it.

Mickey’s lips tipped up, and the guy did a double take obviously making sure that it was directed at him before returning the smile. He continued to stare as the wheels in Mickey’s mind started turning.

Then the predator approached his prey.

“Mickey,” he said, sitting on the chair opposite without asking.

“Um, Byron?”

“Sure, that’ll do.” He slurped loudly, momentarily distracted by the explosion of mango on his tongue. “Come here often?”

“Yes! I have an apartment around the corner, in fact.” His little plastic fork played with the dish of noodles.

“Live alone?”

After nodding, he motioned to Mickey’s chest. “I see you also come here often.”

They both looked at Mickey’s chest, at his name tag and pastel blue polo shirt, and realization dawned on Mickey. This dude thought he was a middle class American with a regular fucking job.

The only reason he even had a clean shirt was because his nerd boss, Nelson, took pity on him. He’d showed up for his shift today in the wrinkled fucking shirt he’d worn to the courthouse and a pair of his brother’s old Levi’s that he found in the ancient Milkovich dryer after waking up on the couch with a pounding head. But Barry here clearly thought he wore this preppy shit for real.

Perfect.

“You work at the mall?” Mickey inquired like they were already on their first date and getting to know each other.

“No, I'm a student.”

“The fuck?” Mickey snapped, looking around the food court again, but this time for cops. “High school?”

“NO! No, post graduate.”

“From high school?”

“Yes, and college,” he laughed. “Now, I’m working on my PhD in British lit. My research area is the ecocritical study of Renaissance drama since...”

He blabbed on about shit that Mickey found as interesting as paint drying, so while the guy’s mouth moved, Mickey planned his next move.

“Got a boyfriend, Barry?”

His mouth stopped moving for a moment, and Mickey smiled in approval. “Uh, no and it’s Byron.”

“Shit, sorry,” Mickey improvised. “I’m going through a tough break-up, so my head’s not in the game.”

It was probably in that moment that Barry’s fate was sealed because Mickey wasn’t able to keep the depth of his real feelings off his fucking face, and the little shit reached a hand across the table to touch Mickey’s wrist.

His eyes nearly dropped into his Szechuan noodles when he saw Mickey’s knuckle tattoos, and he cursed the teenage decision that was now going to tank his chances of making Ian fucking Gallagher regret the day he walked away. But it wasn’t fear or loathing he saw on the guy’s face, it was lust.

Bingo.

Mickey sucked hard on his straw, hoping he was coming off as sexy or some shit. It was hard enough when he was truly wanting to hook up, but near impossible when he wasn’t.

“So...” The kid did some more eyelash fluttering and wiggled one pink clad shoulder coyly. “Some friends of mine are having a party tonight.”

“That right?” Mickey kept his face impassive, even though he wanted to walk the fuck away. Literally, the last place on earth he wanted to spend the evening was at a hipster party, but he was on a mission now.

“It’s going to be a blast.”

Mickey also kept complete control of his eyebrows, waiting for the official invite.

“Are you free tonight?”

Ignoring the tightness in his chest, he nodded. “As a bird.”

His new _boyfriend_ looked over the moon to have a date with Mickey, the upstanding citizen.

“You got wheels?”

After one eager nod, they arranged to meet at the mall entrance when Mickey’s shift ended at 9:00pm.


	18. Episode 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For episodes 9 and 10, I am going to put the symbol *** if we are at a part with Byron that might feel uncomfortable, then you can skip to the end of the scene and not have to read it. Otherwise, the scenes with Bryon are for comedic purposes as it was intended in the show. There are two flagged parts in this chapter.

**Gallagher House**

_Ian was in the back room of the club again, looking through the same glass door. He could see the men outside, but they didn’t seem interested in him this time, so he grasped the handle thinking he could make a run for it. The knob refused to turn, no matter how hard he twisted. Sweat formed on his forehead and along his spine, his breath a shallow._

_He turned away from the door to find Mickey sitting on a chair in the corner. His arms were crossed and knees spread wide. It was so familiar that Ian took a step toward him even though he seemed upset._

_“You’re sick, Ian,” he accused, shaking his head slowly._

_“Mick…No...” he tried to explain that Mickey had it all wrong, but his tongue felt heavy, words crammed into his throat. “Let’s go, okay? You and me!”_

_“They said you have to stay here.”_

_“Why?” Ian cried, turning back to the door and smacking an open palm against the glass, feeling the sting._

_When he turned back to tell Mickey that they just needed to escape, Kash had taken his place. “Jesus,” Ian hissed, back pressed against the door now. “What the hell are you doing here?”_

_“I missed you, Ian.”_

_“Where’s Mickey?” he yelled. “What did you do to Mickey, asshole?”_

_“He’s gone and good riddance.”_

_“NO!”_

_A banging on the glass behind him distracted him from the angry glares he was shooting at his old boss. Turning slowly, Ian was terrified over what he’d see, knowing he wasn’t going to like it. But even so, he wasn’t expecting Mickey’s hurt, accusing eyes looking at him through the glass._

_“They’re waiting for you,” Kash said, sounding too close._

_“Mickey…” he tried again, ignoring the man behind him._

_“You agreed to do it for $600, Ian,” Kash continued, while the disappointment on Mickey’s face seared into his brain waiting to haunt him in the future. “They want you. I want you.”_

_“Shut up,” Ian hissed, afraid if he turned away from Mickey, he’d be gone forever. “Shut up!”_

_Mickey lifted his fingertips to the glass but Ian could only stare at them. “Please, can we talk?” he begged, voice rising to be heard through the barrier. "I can explain."_

_Dropping his hand, Mickey stuffed a smoke between his lips then turned away._

_“Ian!” Kash yelled._

_Hating Kash with every atom in his body, Ian swung around to scream at him, but it was Mickey who stood where Kash had been. His arms open wide._

_“C’mere.”_

_Ian started to cry the moment he felt Mickey’s arms tighten around him._

He woke with a start, blinking into the dark of his bedroom and listening for whatever had disturbed his fitful sleep, but only the sound of distant traffic and his heartbeat filled his ears. The familiar eeriness of the dream swamped his body, leaving him sweaty yet shivering and dying for another dosage of painkillers.

His phone lay on the pillow beside him, and he tapped the screen to reveal that he had two more hours till his next dose and no new messages from Mickey. His last message to Ian was still the one he’d sent before their lunch at Patsy’s.

_Getting a fucking patty melt._

Ian’s texts were a different story though. More than a dozen sent since the trip to the ER, all some version of begging for Mickey’s attention.

 _Please come home._  
_We don’t have to talk if you don’t wanna._  
_I’m sorry._  
_I love you._  
_Where are you staying?_  
_Mick come on_.

He scanned them all, willing a new message to appear. Any message at this point would be an olive branch, showing Mickey was at least considering the idea of forgiving Ian. After a few minutes of fruitless wishing, he typed another message.

_At least tell me where the fuck you are and that you’re okay!_

Knowing that would just antagonize Mickey, he deleted the message and set his phone on the edge of bed, pulling Mickey’s pillow to his chest again. Since the throbbing in his leg and along his cheekbone that had kept him up most of the previous night had subsided to a dull thud, he closed his tired eyes.

The self pity he’d worn like a shield since his return from the emergency room had shifted slightly to include a layer of indignation over what he felt was becoming unfair treatment. He’d never intended to hurt Mickey. In fact, his intention all along had been to protect him in the same way Mickey always protected Ian. It was supposed to be Ian’s chance to show Mickey that he’d do anything to keep him safe, but it had backfired because Ian had also wanted to make sure they understood what they were getting into by signing those papers. It was a big fucking deal to him.

Where Mickey was concerned, it would never be just a piece of fucking paper.

“Jesus,” he hissed into the pillow, breathing in remnants of his boyfriend and regretting all the heedless decisions that littered his past, starting with his decision to join the army and ending with his decision to ask Mickey to marry him. Seriously, who gets married on the spur of the moment like that? Frank and Monica, that’s who. And probably a long line of now divorced fools.

Grabbing his phone again, he started to swipe into a Google search determined to prove his divorce theory, but it was the middle of the night and his head ached from lack of sleep and too much stress. If he wanted to fuck with his stability, then laying here all night looking up divorce rates would be a surefire way to do that. Instead he did a search for emotional intelligence quizzes, remembering the suggestion from his research on supporting a loved one behind bars.

Figuring Psychology Today was his best bet, he tucked Mickey's pillow behind his head and clicked into the quiz, determined to find out why Mickey was so damn resistant to talking. He struggled with the first couple questions, unsure exactly how Mickey would answer but taking a guess anyway. When he got to a question about avoiding difficult conversations though, his finger tapped the _completely true_ button eagerly and a green check mark appeared.

He clicked the same button for the “I’m stubborn” option, mentally adding the word _asshole_ because the quiz was starting to agitate him. He scrolled rapidly over questions about changing your behavior to please others, obsessing over ideas, letting other people make your decisions, until he came to one about being unable to remain civil to people you dislike.

Despite clicking the _completely true_ button on behalf of Mickey, Ian didn’t find that aspect of his personality a negative. He found it fucking endearing that Mickey didn’t feel the need to change himself to suit others. That he was unapologetically himself.

Suddenly tired, he shut down the quiz for now and toggled back to his conversation with Mickey, scrolling up to the two Old Army pictures that he’d looked at a hundred times. He looked almost goofy with his lecherous grin as he angled to give Ian a view of his chino covered ass. Even though he figured he’d be left on read, Ian sent one more text because he needed to make some kind of contact if he had any hope of falling back to sleep.

_I hate sleeping without you._

Tears of hurt pricked his eyes, and he tossed the phone onto the mattress. Pressing his face into the softness of the pillow, he inhaled deeply, searching for anything to make himself feel a little better.

[Watch “You’re a top now?” courtesy of Tue](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_W21mCvuKvY&t=2s)

Mickey stood in the Gallagher bathroom staring at the assorted toothbrushes in the cup beside the sink trying to remember which one was his and which one was Ian’s. He hadn’t brushed his teeth properly since they’d stopped by here to change clothes before the courthouse. While he’d leaned over the sink brushing, Ian had insisted on ironing their goddamn pants, like them showing up to sign some documents in wrinkled khakis would be a shit way to start their married life.

Grabbing one of the toothbrushes now, he squeezed some toothpaste onto it and shoved it into his mouth aggressively.

As he scrubbed off two days of build up and the memory of his fake boyfriend’s mouth, he glared at his reflection. He looked tired and worn out, which made fucking sense since he’d drank way too fucking much two nights in a row then slept like shit.

The party he’d gone to last night had reminded him painfully of the loft party he’d gone to with Ian, so they could have some fucking fun. Truth was, that long ago party _had_ been fun because Ian had fun. While Mickey had stood out like a sore thumb, Ian had fit in perfectly. It became obvious to Mickey that night that the guy he had fallen for could fit in anywhere, like a fucking chameleon, shapeshifting to whatever the situation called for. It had fascinated and terrified Mickey because he knew it could eventually mean that he’d lose Ian as he moved into worlds where Mickey would never belong.

Even after the shitshow that was his life, Mickey had spent the night hobnobbing with a bunch of Byron’s North Side friends and still feeling out of place. Booze had been his savior, calming his rough edges enough to endure a room full of goddamn academics.

All while Ian had been hobbling around on crutches at home. Refusing to let his guilt and compassion loose while still under the Gallagher roof, he ignored the mental images of seeing Ian with his cast and black eye. There would be plenty of time after getting to Byron’s place to beat himself up over his behavior and not be in danger of actually listening to anything Ian had to say.

His phone pinged and he rinsed the toothbrush carrying it with him to the bedroom as he checked his messages to find that Gallagher didn’t even have the balls to say what he had to say to Mickey’s face.

_KISSING ON THE FUCKING MOUTH MICKEY!?!_

Staring at the message, he seethed with anger and the need to storm down the stairs and yell in Ian’s face.

WHAT ARE YOU GONNA DO ABOUT IT, ASSHOLE!?!

But if Ian couldn’t figure out what Mickey needed by now then he clearly didn’t fucking care enough to try because Mickey had made it perfectly clear.

In fact, he’d made it perfectly clear so many times that he felt like a broken goddamn record spinning the same fucking tune. _I would do anything for you, Ian Gallagher_. Over and over it played. But apparently not even kissing some rando on the mouth was enough for Ian to do more than send a fucking text. So Mickey shoved the phone in his pocket without replying.

Of course, at that moment, his eyes landed on the fucking marriage forms they’d completed. Ian must have put them in his pocket back at the courthouse and now they lay partially crumpled on the side table next to Ian’s nighttime pills.

Picking up the pill bottle, Mickey shook it twice, feeling the weight to gauge how many he’d taken and confirming that at least he hadn’t fallen off the wagon. When he set the bottle back down next to the forms, his signature jumped off the page, scribbled quickly before he could change his mind. Half of it was basically an illegible scrawl. Ian’s line remained blank and he turned away, jaw clenched in humiliation.

Determined to pack quickly so he could get out of here without weakening, he shoved up the sleeves of the sweater he’d been forced to purchase at the mall because all his clothes were here. Nearly yanking the handle off the ancient dresser, he pushed aside Ian’s flannels finding his new jacket which he tossed on the bed.

The sheets were rumpled and his pillow was, as usual, on Ian’s side of the bed. The anger that had clenched his chest nearly suffocated him, and he had to breathe deeply to get it under control. That should’ve been his goddamn wedding bed, the sheets a mess because they couldn’t keep their fucking hands off each other.

***

Instead he’d been forced to spend last night in one of the spare bedrooms at the party since Byron’s portable little breathalyzer put them both over the legal limit, and he wouldn’t let either of them operate the mint green abomination he drove, so they were stuck at the party until they sobered up

While his head had swam from too much booze, he’d unzipped his jeans and let the kid go down on him. It hadn’t been as awful as he’d thought it would be because he’d had enough practice over the years fucking around with people he didn’t give two shits about, so it ended up being as meaningless as most of his experiences. He’d, briefly, let himself think about Ian but only long enough to hope that it would hurt the asshole to know his dick was in a different redhead’s mouth, then he’d passed out, strategically, before the suggestion was made that he returned the favor. That shit was never going to happen, but he didn’t want the cat out of the bag before he’d gotten cozy at the guy’s apartment.

He’d woken with a start, wondering where the fuck he was, yet somehow still expecting the red hair on the pillow next to his to be Ian’s. The fact that it wasn’t set off his foul mood, which he’d had to keep under control as he’d gotten on the Vespa that had deposited him _strategically_ in front of the Gallagher house.

If he was going to crash at this guy’s place indefinitely, he needed to change his damn clothes like a human fucking being, so he stuffed the jacket into a black garbage bag, and turned back to the dresser, determined to focus on his new fake relationship with Brian...Barry...fucking Byron.

Tossing Ian’s goddamn socks aside, he figured he must have been somewhat convincing last night when he laid it on thick how he was moving on, how the breakup happened so quickly that he was now homeless, how his shit was still at his ex’s place. Sob sob. Blah blah. It had been enough to get an invitation to stay at the guy’s place, whether that was really where he wanted to be or not.

[Watch “With a twink named Byron” courtesy of Tue](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3jmy3Kubji0)

Ian paused at the foot of the back stairs, terrified to go up. He hadn’t followed Mickey when he first arrived because the guy clearly needed time to cool off and Ian needed time to deal with seeing Mickey kiss another dude. Time hadn’t eased that one though and he swiped into his phone, indignation rampant in his blood over the ultimate betrayal.

KISSING ON THE FUCKING MOUTH MICKEY!?!

He stared at the screen, willing the stubborn dick to reply, to try to defend that bullshit, but of course, he got no response. Gallagher family chatter followed him as he shoved the crutches under his armpits and thumped up the first couple steps, frustrated by everything including his lack of mobility.

Moving slowly, he went over how to approach Mickey when the guy was being irrational and letting his emotions rule his head. Ian had a lot of experience with that since they’d started this thing nine years ago.

Granted, Mickey’s larger than life persona fascinated Ian, tormenting Kash, escaping goddamn prison, ratting on a Mexican cartel. While that was the shit that made Ian fall even harder for him, sometimes, it required a delicate touch that was beyond Ian’s abilities. When Mickey went into full drama queen mode, Ian knew to stand back and wait it out, but this time it included him making out with a fucking twink--right in front of Ian!

“Real fucking mature, Milkovich,” he spat to the empty stairwell where he’d paused. Naturally, his next thought involved where Mickey had spent the last two nights.

Fuck, he wanted to punch a hole in the wall, right next to the one Carl had created when he was eight. Ian stared at it, remembering being the Ian who lived with an eight year old Carl. That Ian knew what he was doing with his life. That Ian knew how to fight for what he wanted.

But _that_ Ian had also fallen hopelessly in love with a boy who fucked Angie and pushed Ian away. His shoulders sagged with the defeat, tired of always having to fight to be with Mickey, but he hobbled up the remaining stairs to deal with the fallout of leaving Mickey at the altar.

[Watch “When you know, you know. You know?” courtesy of Tue](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cocj4H-A7Uc)

**Yorktown Center Shopping Mall**

Slurping on yet another smoothie, Mickey took a seat on the bench outside Old Army’s entrance. Larry was already sitting there and he smiled wide when Mickey joined him.

“Mickey, son, thank you for meeting me.”

“Yeah, no problem, Larry.”

Two teen employees in matching pink tops waved at Mickey as they entered Old Army. Mickey nodded, wondering how a simple change of clothing could hide his innate dislike of humanity.

“What flavor did you get?”

Returning his attention to his P.O., he shook the Styrofoam container. “Peach passion.”

“Sounds delicious.”

“Sure.”

Mickey’s boss, Nelson, appeared in the store’s window display. He began undoing the buttons on one of the mannequin’s jackets. When he noticed the two men sitting on the bench watching him, Nelson waved and Mickey nodded, feeling like Mr. Social.

Larry smacked his thighs enthusiastically and Mickey prepared for whatever was coming. “I’ve asked you to join me to make sure that you haven’t suffered any major setbacks based on my agreement to reassign you to Paula.”

Giving Larry a disbelieving look as the guy laid his arm along the back of the bench in a way too friendly way, he scoffed, “I hate to burst your bubble but it’s been one fucking setback after another. Probably ain’t all your fault though.”

“Would you like to talk about it?”

“I’m done talking about shit.” Jesus, what the fuck is it with people wanting to talk? Even fucking Byron thought they were bonding over shared heartbreak. Like the kid’s two month crush on his professor held a candle to a decade of loving Ian fucking Gallagher.

“Are you sure keeping it all inside is a healthy option, Mickey?”

Knowing that he didn’t have the option of socking his probation officer in the eye to shut him up, he ignored the question and went to town on his peach passion, wondering idly if he should pick up something from the Italian joint for supper.

“Hey,” he said suddenly. “Did your kid really make breadsticks disappear?”

Larry looked delighted. “Indeed. One day he may just be the next Harry Houdini," he paused to smile proudly and give Mickey a glimpse into what a real father looked like. A man who supported his kid even when his dream was to pull rabbits out hats. "Do you have any hobbies yourself, Mickey?”

“What?” He sent Larry an exasperated look because who the fuck has time for a goddamn hobby?

“It’s a good way to release stress and provides a temporary means of escape from life.”

Mickey looked away from Nelson as he continued to strip the mannequin naked. “Well, my _hobby_ used to be target practice, but that’s no longer on the table.”

“Very true. Why don’t you think about it, son? We can come back to this in a future visit,” he paused his pep talk to wait for Mickey’s nod of consent. “The justice system has failed you, and not just over the recent incident with Paula. It seems to be a lifelong issue. I mean to make it up to you.”

“That right?”

Nelson pulled a turtleneck over the mannequin’s head, knocking the faceless skull to the ground, and Mickey actually smiled as it rolled under a t-shirt display. Something about this conversation with Larry felt _hopeful_.

“How are you enjoying your Old Army placement?” Larry asked when Nelson managed to reattach the head.

“It’s fine, I guess.”

“Is this what you’d like to do with your life?”

Mickey gave him a disbelieving look.

“What would you like to do then?”

“Stay outta the joint.”

“Excellent!” He clapped his hands. “Do you have any other aspirations? Any hopes and dreams I should know about?”

He shrugged, feeling pretty confident that counterfeiting wasn’t the answer Larry was looking for.

“Well, I have a few ideas regarding your career,” Larry continued with a quick pat to Mickey’s shoulder. “Much to think about.”

“If you say so.”

When Larry cleared his throat before speaking. “Full disclosure. Mr Gallagher is also on my roster now. I pushed to have him assigned to me because he deserves fair treatment after everything he’s been through.”

While Ian probably did deserve fair treatment that didn’t include ending up in a cast or being forced to drive by hurt kids, Mickey didn’t want to think about any of it, so he tossed his empty drink container in the trash to signal he was done.

“Whatever you say.”

“As part of your parole,” Larry’s voice took on a tone of authority that was new. “You need to keep me in the loop about your living arrangements.”.

“When I know, you’ll know,” Mickey offered.

“Would you like to talk about your disagreement with Mr Gallagher?” He smiled. “I’ve got my puppets in the car.”

“Next time.”

“Seriously, do you have a place to say,” he pressed. “I have to record that for official purposes.”

“Uh, kinda,” he began. “Met someone.”

“Pardon?” The way Larry’s head pivoted toward Mickey reminded him of Nelson’s mannequin.

“I got a place to crash until I figure shit out.”

Larry sighed, clearly losing some of his optimism and about fucking time. “Is that a healthy decision, Mickey?”

“What choices do I got, Lar? I ain’t goin’ to my dad’s.”

“Is the situation between you and Mr Gallagher irreconcilable?”

Mickey just shrugged because he wanted Ian plain and simple, but he knew he couldn’t spend the rest of his life waiting for it to be over.

With a sigh, Larry stood up, signally the end of their meeting. “I’ll need his address for my records.”

“I’ll text you.”

**Gallagher House**

[Watch “Then marry him” courtesy of Tue](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1uhuXyr-5Zc)

“Where’re we going?” Liam asked once they were in the back alley.

“Alibi. And for the record, I’m not scared,” Ian restated to a mostly disinterested Liam.

“What if he really does fall in love with the twink?”

“He won’t!” Ian spat, trying to dislodge his phone from the pocket of his sweatpants without losing a crutch and face planting onto the sidewalk. “This has nothing to do with Byron.”

“So are you gonna listen to Debbie?” Liam asked. “Questionable role model.”

“Marriage is a goddamn landfield. Here,” he said shoving the phone in Liam’s direction. “Send Mickey a text for me. Can’t do shit with these crutches.”

Liam accepted the phone, flipping through screens until he found Mickey’s thread. “ _Woah_ , you sent him a lot of messages.”

“He’s being an ass.”

Looking up at Ian, Liam nodded. “Cause of his EQ?”

They stopped abruptly when a car pulled out of a driveway in front of them. “Whatever. I don’t fucking know. Just text him and stop asking me questions.” He mumbled a gruff apology for being a dick and patted Liam's back as they continued walking.

“What do you want me to write?”

“Tell him...uh...that 50% of marriages end in divorce.”

“Seriously?” Liam shook his head lightly. “You really think that’s a good idea?”

Frustrated, Ian glared at his brother. “Why am I the only one who finds those stats alarming?”

Liam shrugged and entered the crosswalk that lead to the Alibi. “Cause you’re the only one trying to get out of marrying a guy?”

“ _Argh_ , I’m not trying to get out of it!”

“Okay,” Liam said carefully, shoving Ian’s phone back in his hand. “Pretty sure Mickey isn’t gonna reply.”

Frustrated, Ian was half out of breath from walking with goddamn crutches. “Don’t wanna end up like Frank and Monica.”

“Why would you? Mickey isn’t anything like Frank.”

“I know,” Ian agreed. “Cause...bipolar.”

“You’re nothing like Monica either.”

“I wish that were true.”

Liam shrugged as they arrived at the doors to the bar. “Even when you’re crazy, you’re not like Monica. She’s selfish. Hey, don’t forget I need a calculator.”

Following his little brother inside, Ian figured sharing the divorce stats really was pointless because Mickey wouldn’t divorce him no matter what happened. Instead he’d spend his life watching Ian light a match to both of their lives and frantically try to put out everyone of the fires.

**Byron’s Apartment**

[Watch “Why is it so clean in here?” courtesy of Tue](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-5nNyRRloyU)

**The Alibi**

[Watch “Mickey has freakishly small hands” courtesy of Tue](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=j1pl9ZMzthw)

**Byron’s Apartment**

Preferring the sound of dishes banging to the fucking harp music coming from Byron’s sound system, Mickey inhaled in frustration and resignation. Byron was making supper, in a low key panic over the fact that it was pushing 7:00pm and Mickey might get even bitchier if he didn’t get fed asap.

“I hope you’ve got an appetite,” Byron flirted, smiling over his shoulder then faltering when Mickey just stared at him from his seat at the little kitchen table.

“You fucking worried I’ll turn into a pumpkin at 7?”

The guy turned back to his pasta maker, cranking the handle and ignoring Mickey’s question, which was fine since Mickey wanted as little interaction as humanly possible. He looked around the well appointed kitchen for evidence of more alcohol since he’d already polished off the three bottles of raspberry flavored beer shortly after arriving.

“You got any more booze in this place?”

“Yes!” Byron practically ran to the tiny wine fridge in the pantry, producing a bottle of white. “I’ve got a pinot that would pair with the burrata cheese we’re having.”

It would have made Mickey laugh to see the guy so excited over the idea of getting Mickey drunk if he wasn’t planning to do it with goddamn wine. But beggars can’t be choosers and neither can homeless men.

“What are you waiting for then? Gimme a glass.”

Nodding, Byron produced two glasses from the cupboard, setting them on the table then returned to the pantry where he found a small leather case. He set that on the table next to the glasses, unhooking the latch and flipping the lid to expose a bunch of metal gadgets tucked into contoured foam.

“That some kinky shit?”

“What?” Byron asked, looking at Mickey in confusion for the dozenth time since they’d arrived. “It’s a wine opening kit.”

“Why the fuck do you need a _kit_ to open a bottle of booze?”

“Well, that’s the foil cutter and the aerator, of course.”

Mickey frowned down at the box, trying to imagine how all the gadgets could possibly improve the experience of drinking rotten grapes, but before they could continue, the pot of water on the stove started to boil and Byron rushed away.

Ignoring everything except the corkscrew, Mickey stuffed the wine bottle between his thighs before jamming the pointed tip into the cork and twisting the handle. The sooner he got some alcohol into his system the better. For everyone.

He took a long slug, smacking his lips at the mild tartness, and memories of Gator's brew flashed through his mind. Releasing a sigh, he marveled over how he wished for a brief moment that he was back in prison.

By the time Byron returned to the table with two plates of food, the bottle was half empty and Byron studied Mickey’s face closely, probably looking for evidence that the booze was working. Shifting his eyebrows into WTF mode, Mickey yanked the plate out of the guy’s dainty hands, found his equally dainty fork and filled his mouth with strips of pasta.

While Mickey chewed, Byron sat. He snapped the napkin once before draping it over his knee and picking up his fork. His eyes kept flicking to his dinner guest as he speared a cherry tomato.

Mickey stopped chewing. “Did you forget to heat this shit?”

“It’s arugula and lemon Parmesan vinaigrette pasta salad! It’s supposed to be chilled.”

Mickey let his eyebrows respond on his behalf.

**Gallagher House**

“Where’s Lip?” Liam was hunched over his schoolwork at the kitchen table. “This calculator has way too many buttons. Do you know what STO stands for?”

“Huh?” Ian asked from where he was attempting to crouch down and paw through all the sneakers piled up at the back door. “Uh, yeah, I think it means storage. If you’re gonna reuse a number a lot.”

“Oh, that’s cool. How'd you know that?”

One of Frank’s ratty shoes caught his eye, and his nose. “Spent a summer being tutored by Lip so I could improve my math scores.”

“For what?”

“West Point.”

“Ah, that sucks.”

Frank’s shoelace looked like it was still in decent shape. “Yeah, but I think losing my EMT job was worse.”

“I’m sorry, Ian.”

He looked up from yanking on Frank’s good shoelace and smiled because he recalled his decision at the hospital to try to behave as Liam’s unofficial guardian. “Me too. I knew, at least deep down, that my meds weren’t cutting it anymore, but I chose not to do anything about it. I’m...learning, man.”

Liam, who usually looked like he was tolerating life on this planet, reached a hand out to where Ian was still crouched. He patted Ian’s shoulder. “I don’t think your meds are working now cause you shouldn’t be touching Frank’s sneaker without a hazmat suit.”

“Ha ha.” He stood up, then hopped over to the kitchen chair to drop down into it with a grunt. “I need something to keep these rings safe on my body.”

He twirled his own white gold ring between his fingers before slipping it onto the lace and knotting the end. Liam was right that the matte finish was more their style than something really shiny. Well, at least he assumed that was their style, since he and Mickey had never gotten a chance to discuss any of their preferences, which was the damn reason Ian wanted them to talk.

Once the lace was around his neck, he looked at Liam. “What do you think?”

“Uh, I’m not an expert on love, but I think engagement rings go on fingers.”

Shrugging, Ian reached a foot out to knock Frank’s other shoe closer, but the odor caused them both to recoil. “It’s more like, um, a promise ring kind of thing.”

“Oh.”

Suddenly feeling frustrated, Ian kicked at Frank’s shoe while trying to locate another lace that didn’t look like it’d been through three generations of Gallaghers.

“You gonna give Mickey his promise ring soon?” Liam asked.

“Yes, Google something for me.”

“I’m not your secretary.”

“Put a sock in it and look up Byron Koch.”

“Like the soda?”

“Nah, K O C H.”

“You gonna go bring him home?”

Ian inhaled deeply because that was what he hoped was going to happen, but he suspected it might be harder than simply showing up since they seemed incapable of communicating with each other. All the unsaid things between them kept getting in the way of anything that was actually said.

“I got an address.”

“Pin it for me, would ya?” Ian asked. “Whereabouts is it?”

“Northside. Near Glencoe.”

“Shit, that’s close to the mall where Mickey works.” Ian made a mental note of that in case it came in handy.

Watching Ian, Liam tapped his pencil against the blank page in his workbook making Ian feel like the parenting roles had flipped again. “Let’s make a pros and cons list,” Liam said as he wrote those labels at the top of the page, drawing a line down the center of the paper.

He looked up at Ian. “Pros for marrying Mickey.”

Ian swallowed, pushing back to his feet and grabbing his phone from the table. “I gotta do...something.”

“Mhm,” he hummed watching Ian shuffle toward the stairs. “The time is always right to do what’s right.”

“Okay, Buddha.”

“That’s Dr. King actually,” Liam corrected. “Anyway, I’ll start the list for you by putting you love him at the top.”

Ian shifted the crutches to the first step, wondering which column to put that in. His love for Mickey was the best thing that ever happened to him, but could Mickey say the same thing?

**Byron’s Apartment**

Moments after Mickey had dumped his clothes in the middle of Bryon’s fancy ass rug, the guy had scooped them up, folded them and tucked them away in a drawer. Hours later, Mickey was pawing through that drawer looking for the dark green jacket he’d packed. He thought it would look good with the new burgundy sweater that absolutely _did not_ remind him of the one he’d worn at the damn docks.

He held the jacket up, nodding in approval, but decided it needed a few adjustments first. Turning toward the kitchen, he watched Byron wipe the table beneath Mickey’s glass then transfer it to a place mat. Annoyed now, Mickey walked away from the dresser, leaving the drawer open behind him in retaliation.

“You got any scissors in this joint?”

“Yes, of course,” Byron replied, looking at Mickey suspiciously.

“Don’t worry, I’m not gonna chop you up with them,” he chuckled.

Byron’s face turned a few shades of pale, but he pulled the shears from a kitchen drawer and held them out to Mickey, who settled on the sofa with them. After turning the jacket inside out, he shoved a stack of books over the edge of the coffee table then laid out his jacket, running his hands along the seams to smooth the material. Meanwhile, Bryon sniffed like he was in pain as he carefully re-stacked the books on a shelf.

Digging the tip of the scissors into the left shoulder seam, he felt Byron’s breath on his neck. “Can I help you with something?” he snapped.

“Wh-what are you doing?”

“What does it look like? I got my own fashion line, obviously,” he explained, nipping several threads with one slice.

“Are you...cutting the arms off?”

“Nothing gets past you, does it?”

“Why?”

“Look,” he began, giving Byron a nudge so he’d step the fuck back and stop crowding Mickey. “I don’t think you’re in any position to question my fashion choices after being seen in public in that pink fucking jacket, okay?”

“Pardon?” Bryron asked, hand on his chest.

“Yeah, maybe you should get that faggity ass thing out here. Those arms need to be chopped off.”

“It’s a vintage Ralph Lauren and _lamb skin!_ ”

Mickey sighed, putting some of his frustration into the act of slicing the tiny threads. This was definitely gonna be the longest night of his life.

**Outside Gallagher House**

[Watch “I think you should marry him” courtesy of Tue](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EHmEjz-TA40)

**Byron’s Apartment**

[Watch “How do you know you love me?” courtesy of Tue](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aps0oDukl90)

Shoving aside a set of ridiculous poodle statues to get a better view out the window, Mickey scanned the street below Byron’s apartment. He wasn’t actually expecting Ian to still be standing on the sidewalk, but a tiny part of him hoped he’d be ringing the buzzer again tonight because he’d come to his fucking senses. Whatever the hell that looked like, Mickey didn’t even know anymore.

Fucking promise rings. Was this a goddamn middle school dance? Fuck, he needed a smoke and Bryon would probably have an aneurysm if Mickey lit up in the showroom he called an apartment.

The only action on the street below was a couple walking hand in hand. Ian must have left, probably with his tail tucked between his legs because Mickey had been harsh, maybe too harsh but _fuck_. It felt like he’d been transported back to all the shit that had gone down before his arrest. Back to square fucking one, with Ian tossing all his baggage in Mickey’s face expecting Mickey to give up on them because he had a fucking mental illness. As if that made Mickey love him any less.

Watching the couple enter the Mexican joint across the street, he remembered telling Ian he was fucked for life and how that kid had tried to fix shit for Mickey, to show him that he really could have something more in life than he’d ever thought possible.

While Mickey had wanted Ian to know not to expect much from him because betting on a Milkovich was a bad fucking idea, he was beginning to see that he might not be able to bet on a Gallagher either. Neither family had its shit together, but as far as he was concerned, at least the fucking Milkoviches owned up to their shit. Goddamn Gallaghers took one look at something good in their life and doused it in fucking gasoline.

He could hear Bryon futzing around behind him, but he kept his attention on the couple exiting the restaurant below. They were sharing what Mickey suspected was a fucking tamale. It had been awhile since he’d thought about watching his back for cartel fallout, and that thought led him to Tyson then to Ian’s accusation that he’d never loved anyone else.

Mickey had barely even crossed a line into giving a shit over another guy and that was how he’d wanted it, but had Ian? It was that comment that had pushed Mickey over the edge and he’d wanted to lash out and hurt Ian.

While he understood what Ian was trying to tell him about his fears, this particular fight was about Mickey’s fears not Ian's. If Ian’s doubts were going to keep breaking them up, then Mickey was leaving. He’d find that fucking relationship that was so important to Ian. He’d find someone else even if it killed him.

Byron was finishing up in the kitchen when Mickey stepped away from the window. He blocked out the endless clanking of cupboard doors as he got undressed, stripping off each layer slowly and sighing at the sight of his clothes in a pile on Byron’s floor again. Maybe he needed to take this break up seriously. Maybe it wasn’t all for show like he’d assumed. When he’d stormed out of the courthouse, he’d been furious enough to never want to see Gallagher’s face again.

But that initial fury had burned off pretty quickly and left behind hurt and uncertainty, emotions that were way too familiar where Ian was concerned. So he bent down to his clothes, picking up Iggy’s jeans and folding them haphazardly so they’d fit in the drawer. He did the same with his sweater before pulling on a tank top. If he’d learned one thing from the two redheads, gay dudes had a thing for not throwing your shit on the floor.

Inhaling all his frustration, he waved vaguely at Byron who was hovering in the kitchen. “Why don’t you aerate another bottle of that shit we drank with supper?”

“O-kay,” Byron said, eyes drifting quickly up and down Mickey’s body before he turned away.

Mickey glanced at his body too, at his thighs which were exposed because he was only wearing boxers, then up to his bare shoulders and biceps. A stress headache was trying to take root, so the sooner he got some fucking wine in his system the better. If he was going to let the guy sleep in the bed tonight, then he needed another bottle of something.

“It’s a cab sav,” Byron explained, setting the bottle and fresh glasses on the coffee table.

“I bet it is. Fill ‘er up.”

“I know California is considered the premiere location in the country for a good red, but I’ve recently discovered a small vineyard in Oregon that--” he paused when Mickey dropped to the sofa with a long sigh, too tired for another lesson is pretentiousness.

While Byron silently topped them up, Mickey looked around the apartment for the television. “How’re we gonna watch Netflix?” he asked.

Sitting unduly close to Mickey, Byron handed him his wine glass and clinked their rims lightly. “I don’t watch television. I prefer to read.”

“Clearly,” Mickey said, eyeing the stacks of books everywhere. Swallowing not only the bitter ass wine but also his better judgment, Mickey looked at Byron. “What’re you reading now?”

Byron almost burst from the sofa in enthusiasm, grabbing a hardback book from a stack. “I’m rereading Hegemony or Survival. Have you read it?”

“Waiting for the Netflix special,” Mickey muttered, reaching to the side table for his phone, which he’d been ignoring since Ian insisted on blowing it up with his endless texts.

“Oh, I doubt there will be one.”

“Tragic.”

Tucking the leather bookmark into the back of the book, Bryon sipped delicately from his wine while reading. His left leg was pulled up to the sofa so it rested lightly against Mickey’s bare thigh, and his body was angled toward Mickey as well. Clearly sending signals that Mickey didn’t know what to do with.

Instead of dealing with it, he went to his messages. Surprisingly, Ian had sent nothing since the last batch, which had summarized all the statistics available on divorce. Larry sent him a reminder that he needed to update his files with Mickey’s new address, which he ignored out of self-preservation. But he did think about Larry's suggestion to get a hobby, so he pulled up Sandy’s name.

Meet me under the L at noon tomorrow. Bring some entertainment.

An incoming text from Carl appeared just as he sent off the text to his cousin.

_i thought everything was gonna be ok. love is a hoax._

***

While Mickey bit his lip, wondering if he should respond, Byron set his wine glass on the coffee table and when he sat back, his hand landed softly on Mickey’s thigh about two inches from the bottom of his boxers.

Of course, his dick poked its head up to see what was happening, even though his headache was back, and Byron noticed. His fingers made tiny circles on Mickey’s skin. It broke Mickey’s heart that he was in this predicament, but it was really beginning to look like he might have to live without Ian.

_Life sucks kid._

Tossing his phone to the coffee table, he tipped his wine glass to his lips and closed his eyes as he settled his head against the back of the sofa, willing the booze to transport him anywhere else. But Byron’s mouth interfered with his escape plan.

“As an English major, I’m fascinated by the role propaganda plays in shaping public opinion, particularly with foreign affairs and what defines a just war according to politicians. Don’t you find it interesting?”

Mickey opened one eye in disbelief. “Sure, between meeting my parole officer to piss in a cup and hiding from my homophobic father, I’m gonna run for fucking president. I’m going to bed.”

He stood up, pleased to discover that the additional two glasses of wine had indeed softened the edges. Hooking his fingers under his tank top, he yanked it off, tossing it toward the chest of drawers.

The sheets were tucked so tightly around the mattress that he grunted with the effort to release them enough to slip into the coolness. The whole time, he’d been aware of Byron’s eyes watching him. Fuck, he knew he needed to say something, invite the guy to join him, initiate something sexual. Otherwise, he might as well rent a bed at the Y.

Mickey almost fell asleep while Byron was in the bathroom doing god knows what, but he came out in a pair of silk flowered sleep pants and Mickey laughed up at the ceiling, at the cosmic joke that was his life.

Byron shuffled forward, turning off all the lights then pausing near the bed until Mickey looked at him.

“Get in,” he said quietly. “And don’t ever call me honey again.”

“Oh, sorry.”

The bed jostled and the guy’s body heat spread to Mickey immediately as did his gaze. It was intense in a way that made Mickey’s skin crawl. Only one person on the planet was permitted to see the real Mickey and it wasn’t this yahoo. But it was late and dark and he was tired and half cut and Ian’s sad fucking face wouldn’t leave his mind. Nagging worry over whether Ian might need a meds adjustment underscored every thought, so when Byron’s tentative voice reached him, he didn’t tell him to shut the fuck up.

“I got you something when I went out for cherry tomatoes earlier.”

“Yeah?”

A minute of rustling happened, then something landed on the mattress between them. Mickey opened his eyes to find a mid-sized black dildo, tiny bottle of lube and Byron’s hopeful eyes.

“Christ,” he muttered at the absurdity of the situation.

“I thought maybe that was why you were so...bitchy.”

Well, it certainly didn’t help matters but lack of ass play was not the root of his bitchiness; however, he wasn’t about to share that with the guy. Instead, he tossed the items on the nightstand, weariness like a set of thermal pajamas encasing his body.

“I got a headache.” He wasn’t lying as he turned his back on Byron.

**Gallagher House**

Ian gave up his tossing and turning, sitting up slowly and adjusting all the pillows and sheets he’d tucked around his throbbing leg. The walk to Byron’s place from the train station hadn’t been a great idea apparently, plus he’d spent the last fifteen minutes trying to reach an itch under his cast that kept moving the moment his finger got close. He needed something to stuff down there.

The house was chilly, so he took an extra minute to pull on a hoodie and sweatpants before hobbling down the stairs to the kitchen. With a glass of orange juice and Aunt Oopy’s knitting needle, he settled onto the chair in the living room, wondering when the last time they’d lit a fire in the fireplace was. Probably the last Christmas that Monica has been around, close to ten years ago.

Working the needle under his cast, he almost passed out from relief when it hit the spot he’d been chasing. Before he could finish working his way around his whole lower leg, he heard the back door open and close.

“Who’s a big boy? Yes, you are…” the murmurs ended when the microwave started humming. A minute later, it dinged and the voice continued. “Such a hungry boy.”

Tami appeared in the entryway. Her eyes widened in surprise before relaxing when she sorted out who was sitting quietly in the darkened living room at 2:00am.

“Ian! I’m so used to the solitude at this time of night, I wasn’t expecting anyone.”

“Couldn’t sleep.” He held up the knitting needle. “Itch under my cast that was driving me nuts.”

She adjusted Fred and the bottle as she yawned. “I’m having the opposite problem. Trouble staying awake. Lip’s been doing the middle of the night feeding which is why I’m using a bottle, but he’s gotta be at work early.”

“I could...you know…” He gestured toward the baby unsure if he was overstepping.

“Feed him?”

“Yeah, if you want then you could rest on the couch.”

Fred and the bottle were in his arms before he finished that sentence. As he settled the baby into the shape of his arm, feeling the compact warmth, he settled a little himself. Tami stretched out on the sofa, throw pillow tucked under her head, eyes immediately closing.

Fred’s big brown eyes stared up at him as he sucked rapidly at the nipple, making Ian smile and melt. “Hi Freddie,” he cooed, using the voice that Mickey pretended to hate.

His arms tightened a little in his need to express how much he loved the little guy. He’d barely had a day without shit to deal with where he could just hang out with Fred like this. Tami made a snuffling noise and Ian smiled, amazed at how quickly new parents can fall asleep if given the chance.

“Hey, little man.” He lifted the baby to his shoulder, rocking slowly and rubbing a hand over his back. He smelled so good, like baby powder and newness. Almost as good as his other favorite smell.

“You’re a natural, aren't you?” Tami’s eyes were open, watching him. “Do you want to be a dad?”

“Yeah, of course.”

She nodded, eyes soft from sleep and low lighting.

“I sorta was once.”

“Oh?”

He felt his hand pick up speed a little on Fred’s back, and he willed himself to relax so he didn’t disturb the child.

“Me and Mick. We were teenagers,” he laughed. “Playing house.”

“I sense a story there,” she commented quietly. Her eyes were alert now and Ian felt a rush of panic as his body remembered so many traumatic moments that his breath caught in his lungs.

“Touchy subject?”

“Yeah,” he sighed. “But it’s more than that.”

“I’m listening.”

Fred let out a big burp, and Ian cooed a “good boy” into his ear before explaining how one poorly made decision ruined his life.

“Well, the last time I opened up to a new sister, I ended up in a military prison and Mick ended up in real prison for attempted murder.”

She sat up, flicking her ponytail over her shoulder. “Trust sucks. I’ll be the first one to tell you that, Ian.”

They shared a look, while Ian considered what he’d said to Mickey earlier that evening. “Especially when it’s yourself you don’t trust.”

“Mm,” she agreed, standing up and accepting a now sleeping Fred. She looked down at Ian, rocking the passed out baby as she spoke. “Marriage is a big deal though. You don’t see me rushing down the aisle even with a kid.”

“You thinkin’ of marrying Lip?”

She chuckled. “Honestly, I feel like I barely know him, and sometimes I’m sure we were raised on different planets.”

“I guess maybe that’s why me and Mickey fit so well,” he explained. “We’re from the same planet and we’ve known each other forever.”

“And you love him?”

“More than anything.”

She started toward the backdoor then turned back to him with a shrug. “So maybe marrying him actually isn't the problem...”

“Well, the divorce rates don’t help,” he smirked.

[by Steorie](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/steorie)


	19. Episode 9 Recap

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short update featuring Mickey and Sandy, and Ian and Aunt Oopy ;0. By the end of tomorrow's update, we'll be knee deep in make up sex--much to Mickey's relief lol. Then I have to take two days off for work related reasons, but everything after that is about them sorting things out.

**Here’s what you missed on the last episode of Shameless…**

**Under the L**

A sweet rush of relief shot through Mickey’s body, leaving behind that familiar trail of pleasure. It had been way too fucking long since he’d felt it, and he immediately needed to feel it again. The gentle push back against his palm that traveled up his arm and into his shoulder. The split second where the air around him changed before the crack of the bullet breaking the sound barrier.

The tension in his shoulders released a little more each time the .45 cartridge tore a hole in one of the pumpkins lined up against the brick wall, creating a god awful mess that made him smile.

“Damn,” he sighed as the now empty Beretta dropped to his side. “Missed that.”

Sandy smiled, unfolding her legs from where she sat cross legged on a washing machine someone had dropped from the overpass. “My turn.”

He passed her the gun and lit a smoke while she reloaded, nodding appreciatively as she slid each cartridge into the magazine like a pro. His smoke was half done by the time the magazine was spent and the Beretta tucked into the waistband of her jeans. She reached for his pack of Marlboro, helping herself to one.

Exhaling toward the rumble of a train overhead, she watched him closely until it was quiet again. “So how’s the new digs?”

“Don’t wanna talk about it, Sandy.” To prove his point, he flicked his smoke at the dirt ground and reached into the ammo box for a handful of cartridges. “Gimme the pistol.”

She held the grip toward him but didn’t release her hold on the slide and their eyes met. “What the hell are you doing?” she asked.

“Trying to enjoy some target practice.” He raised his eyebrows in defiance, but she had never been afraid of him and didn’t flinch at his cold look.

“Listen,” she began, releasing the gun. “We can come up with a better plan than this. Making yourself miserable in order to make your pain in the ass boyfriend miserable is, well, dumb as fuck.”

Ignoring her, Mickey jammed a cartridge into the magazine, swearing when the coiled spring pinched his thumb. “Goddamn it,” he hissed sucking on the tender skin.

“Hey,” she said, stepping closer and taking the magazine from him. She held out her hand for the cartridges and he dropped them into her palm. “Weak hand draw. Winner buys drinks.”

He nodded then accepted the loaded gun. Turning toward the nearly destroyed targets and imagining they were Byron's stupid ass ceramic poodles, he adjusted his stance, feeling the slightly awkward weight of the Beretta in his left hand. While it felt good, even with his weak hand, it also reminded him that it wasn't only his mind and heart that missed Ian. His body missed him too. It missed the comfort of his hands and that ache for him was almost as familiar as his actual touch. Being without Ian was like shooting with his weak hand. He could do it, but it felt fucking wrong.

Focusing again on the targets, he released a long breath. “Hope you got paid recently cause I’m fucking thirsty.”

**Gallagher House**

Leaning heavily on his left crutch, Ian tossed shirts from the top dresser drawer onto the bed looking for clothing he could pass off as a _reason_ to visit Mickey. He didn’t want to show up empty handed, even if this excuse was as flimsy as Mickey’s claims of being in love with Bryon. After his conversations with Mickey and Tami, and the first decent sleep he’d had since Mickey left, Ian was ready to have a real talk, to lay it on the line with Mickey. But he needed something concrete as a way to engage Mickey.

The problem was that Mickey didn’t have many belongings to begin with, and he’d packed up most of them yesterday when he’d stopped by the Gallagher house.

The black t-shirt that Ian had saved all those years was not leaving this house just in case...he didn’t even want to entertain the thought that Mickey might never come back. He’d already dealt with that twice and no way would he get through it a third time. But he wasn’t taking a chance with the t-shirt since it held too many memories.

He paused over a couple pairs of Mickey’s boxers, but he didn’t want to show up at Byron’s with a bag of underwear. Glancing around the room, he was about to drop down to the bed in defeat, when he remembered the dirty clothes hamper downstairs, so he stuffed his second crutch under his arm and made his way down the back stairs.

_“Many things point to the fact that we are living in end times.”_

Aunt Oopy’s annoying radio station met him as he stomped into the kitchen, heading straight to the laundry area and ignoring Tami’s aunt as well as the smell of chocolate chip cookies baking in the oven.

_“Of course the Bible gives us various clues and signs that we can look for.”_

“Oh Ian,” she began while he yanked open the dryer door because the hamper was empty. “You should listen to this program in preparation for what life on Earth will be like after the Rapture.”

“Could only improve things.” He tossed five pairs of Carl’s jeans onto the top of the dryer then reached in for the remaining material.

“I was speaking with Reverend Edwards about your Gay Jesus impersonation,” she continued and Ian rolled his eyes so hard it made him dizzy. “He is willing to meet with you to--”

“Hallelujah!” he yelped. One of Mickey’s checked button up shirts clung to Frannie’s pink princess nightgown. He pulled them apart and turned toward the stairs, ignoring the spatula that Aunt Oopy waved at him.

“I’ll let the Reverend know you are interested.”

He gripped Mickey’s shirt in his hand, imagining strangling her with it as he disappeared upstairs.

“Your redemption draws near!”

Slamming the bathroom door behind him, Ian sincerely hoped that his redemption was near. As far as he was concerned, it was a long time coming. Maybe he’d ultimately read _The Bible_ not to face off with bigots but to save himself in some way.

He turned on the tap, watching the water splash into the sink as it heated in preparation for his shave. The past was riddled with mistakes that he’d never acknowledged and he’d seen enough inspirational memes to know that ignoring crap didn’t make it go away. Now all this shit with Mickey was forcing him--them--to deal with the past. With the mistakes, the hurt, the fucking sins.

The mirror started to steam up and he caught his reflection in it, searching his eyes for any signs of mental illness or the accompanying shame but only finding himself looking back.

Maybe redemption really was near.


	20. Episode 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are a couple more scenes with Byron, and one of them has the *** at the start, so you could skip that one scene if you'd rather not read anything risky. All the other Byron scenes focus on the building animosity between them that eventually comes out at the concert.
> 
> This is a long chapter and a good place for me to take two days to get caught up on grading papers. I'll see you Thursday morning for what I'm calling the "Missing Episode" which gives us an idea what they were up to between the proposal and Mickey becoming groomzilla <33

**Byron’s Apartment**

“Their breakfast tart is delicious.”

From where he’d been reclining on the sofa all morning, Mickey just shook his head at Byron, imagining a smoke between his fingers and the feel of nicotine coating his lungs and giving him a reason to live. In an attempt to ignore the ginger bumblebee buzzing around him, Mickey had snagged one of Bryon’s books. The cover featured an old dude with seriously impressive eyebrows. Life goals, he decided.

“Bottomless mimosas?”

Sure, he always wanted fucking flapjacks for breakfast but no amount of booze filled OJ would ever be enough to get him through an hour of torture at some North Side hipster brunch joint. Instead, he continued to flip through the book, stopping on a poem called “The Virginity” and hoping he’d uncovered some old school porn.

_Try as he will, no man breaks wholly loose / From his first love._

“Jesus,” he muttered, eyes skimming the gibberish that was fucking poetry and definitely _not_ porn.

_We've only one virginity to lose, / And where we lost it there our hearts will be!_

He snapped the book closed to stare at the old dude on the cover again. What did this Kipling guy with his wild eyebrows know about breaking free from your first love? About the fucking intensity and vulnerability of trusting someone with your heart. Mickey could write his own fucking poem, and he’d at least include some actual sex in it.

“We could try their Bloody Marys?” Byron continued like there was a snowball’s chance in hell that the two of them would ever bond over brunch, but if he didn’t get out of this apartment immediately, he might commit a felony.

Plus he’d been right that his new sweater looked good with the jacket he’d altered, so they might as well go out on the fucking town. He tossed the book aside and stood up.

“Now we’re talking.” He imagined sucking back several Bloody Marys before hitting Old Army. He might just survive this day. “You can drop me at work after.”

They’d actually reached something resembling a truce last night, albeit a very fragile one. Mickey still felt the urge to knock over the guy’s ridiculous poodle figurines and he was going to need to stop at a liquor store on his way home from his shift, but he was going to fucking do this right. Well, right-ish. Ian wanted him to fucking date someone else, to find out _if_ he loved the dumbass. So fucking be it then.

“We fucking doing this or what?” he snapped at Bryon, already forgetting his commitment to the plan.

Byron clutched his leather jacket against the animal print blouse covering his chest, eyes wide from shock. It was going to take the guy some time to get used to Mickey’s brand of charm apparently.

“Sorry,” he mumbled and held the door open for his goddamn _brunch date_.

[Watch “When you know you know, right?” courtesy of Tue](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WX8umzs0h1w)

**Gallagher House**

When Ian found himself tossing and turning again the next night, he gave up on finding the itch under his cast and tossed the knitting needle onto his nightstand. It was 2:12am and if he played his cards right, maybe feeding Fred could become a regular thing. Maybe he’d get a chance to build a real bond with his nephew.

Tami smiled at him as he swung his body into the living room via the front stairs. “Thank god,” she groaned. “I almost fell asleep while standing at the microwave.”

Quickly getting settled in the chair, Ian held his arms out for the little guy. “Hey Freddie, it’s Uncle Eeee-an.”

The boy released the nipple to smile and coo, milk bubbles forming between his lips. Ian smiled back and Fred’s little hand tightened around Ian’s finger where it held the bottle. It was the sweetest thing he’d ever seen and Fred stared up at him like he was expecting something.

“ _I wanna hold your haaaaand. Yeah, I wanna hold your hand,_ ” he sang quietly into Fred’s big brown eyes, which never left his. “ _Pleeease say to meee, you’ll let me be your maaaan._ ”

His nephew’s attention and the accuracy of the lyrics were making Ian emotional. Sometimes, well maybe most of the time, he felt overwhelmed by his emotions, lost over what the hell to do with them because there were just so many. To make it bearable, he always worked hard to push them deep enough inside that they were nearly muted, but they constantly bubbled under the surface these days.

At the moment, he wasn’t even sure which emotions were threatening to escape. Love for sure because he was getting another glimpse of what Lip had mentioned on their drive home from Beckman. Caring about someone so much that you’d change your life for that person. _Willingly_.

Fred went back to sucking rapidly on the nipple, but he didn’t loosen his grip on Ian’s finger. His tiny fingernails were turning a pale shade of blue with the force he was exerting, and Ian imagined equally tiny offensive tattoos on the baby’s knuckles. That wave of love hit him again, but this time it was mostly directed elsewhere, to the person _he_ loved most in the world.

“I bet you really loved that baby.”

Tami’s voice startled him and Freddie stopped sucking to look at Ian.

“The one you mentioned? Last night?” she added.

“Yeah, I did love him, but life...ya know?” Ian kept his eyes on Fred as a part of him wished that he could have a do-over, begin again as a tiny baby with his life ahead of him, which led him to thinking about the shitty start Yevgeny had.

“I’m fucking bipolar,” he continued, then rubbed a hand over Fred’s head. “Fudging, I mean.”

“Right, he’s never going to hear a cuss word around here,” she laughed. “I don’t know the whole story, Ian, but I’m pretty sure he benefited from having you in his life even briefly.”

Ian just shrugged. No way in hell was he going to share with her what went down the last time he’d been with Yev. She’d probably rip Fred out of his arms and hide him away.

But the strangest thing happened. He felt almost calm and the usual self loathing didn’t follow those thoughts. Instead, he recognized that he’d been a boy then doing his best in awful circumstances, and he wanted to give that boy the same love he was giving his nephew now. He wanted to tell him he’d done his best and he deserved to be loved even if he wasn’t perfect, even if he’d never be perfect.

He looked back at Tami, who hadn’t nodded off while Ian had his _ah-ha_ moment, so he decided to try out saying some of it aloud. “I was sick then, like really fucking sick.” He inhaled and exhaled. “And I messed up. I was unmedicated and I thought I knew what I was doing. I didn’t.”

She looked down at Fred, held confidently in Ian’s arms, bottle forgotten as he slept. “You sure seem to now.”

“It’s been an uphill battle all the way,” he smiled. “But yeah, I’m getting there. I...accept it now and I’m trying to...forgive myself. Yeah.” He nodded, mostly for his own benefit.

“Good for you, Ian. I could learn a few things from you.”

Deciding it was time to redirect, he grinned. “I could teach you how to go-go dance.”

Her eyes widened then she started to laugh. “How ‘bout we save that conversation for tomorrow night?”

They made the transfer and Fred slept through it, blissfully full of milk, but Tami didn’t move away immediately.

“Deep love is goddamn scary,” she whispered, maybe to him, maybe to herself, maybe to her son. “You can never go back...to who you were before.”

Ian swallowed hard. “And what if you fuck up and it’s gone forever?”

“Jesus,” she murmured, meeting his eyes before pulling her son closer to her chest. “And you’re never able to feel whole again.”

Ian nodded. “No matter how hard you try.”

**Byron’s Apartment *****

Byron’s breathing was low key annoying Mickey, who had spent the last god knows how many hours trying to fall asleep. Despite the tentative truce they’d established, the idiot had gone ahead and invited Ian and his fucking plus one to the ridiculous concert Byron had raved about until Mickey had wanted to drive a stake into his own heart and end it all.

They’d never made it to brunch because the little bike thingy was still sitting curbside. He’d been forced to take the train to and from work, which had not endeared Byron to him since Mickey had been looking for reasons to be pissed off. Byron’s invite had spurred his redhead into retaliating and that was not sitting well with Mickey.

No sir, it was not. He wasn’t completely sure who he was pissed off at more, so he made sure to give both assholes equal space in his head while he cursed their existences. He was stuck in some weird ass love triangle that was about to become a...square?

Jesus, he flipped over onto his side because if he didn’t he might cover Bryon’s face with a pillow. Tapping a finger to his phone screen, 2:12am appeared. He released a sigh knowing that he was never going to fall asleep, so he gave in to habit and wrapped a hand around his dick, pumping it to life.

Naturally, _also_ out of fucking habit, Ian’s face and abs appeared in his mind. That was his go to in the spank bank, even making a repeat appearance in Mickey’s sketches because you could eat off those abs they were so fucking tight.

“Fuck,” he hissed quietly, determined that he wasn’t giving the asshole any real estate in his mind while he jacked off tonight. Increasing the speed of his hand, he tried to picture Byron but all he could come up with was his flowered pajama bottoms and his deer in headlights expression, enough to deflate any dick let alone Mickey’s.

Sighing, he reminded himself that he was trying to learn how to love someone other than shithead. Surely, Byron could be loved. He just had to fucking force himself. Maybe if he could fuck the guy, he’d discover some kind of connection. So he tried picturing that. Climbing on top of him, taking him from behind.

Nope. His dick was not down for that, so naturally, Ian’s abs made a reappearance and he cursed again.

The idea of letting Byron top him was ludicrous. Even if the guy was a goddamn tantric master, Mickey just couldn’t get on board with that idea. But fuck, he hated living without the shit he liked. After too many years locked up or hiding, it wasn’t fucking fair that he couldn’t get off the way he wanted.

That train of thought had basically killed his dick, so he released it. Maybe his fucking roommate could suck him off or something. The guy seemed open to shit even when Mickey spent most of the day low key tormenting him. Even getting him a brand new dildo in an attempt to woo Mickey like he was taming a rabid rottweiler with sex toys.

Oh shit! Yanking open the nightstand drawer, he found the device and the bottle of lube, pulling them onto the mattress. Byron was still half ass snoring, and Mickey palmed the dildo, feeling the weight and shape of it. His dick resuscitated. In fact, his whole body started to tingle. This was what he needed.

He looked at the label on the lube, squinting in the dim street light filtering into the room. Some organic shit with green tea that almost ended Mickey’s game plan. But he ignored the pretentiousness and flipped the lid on the container, coating his fingers and smoothing the liquid over his semi-erection. The easy glide made him shiver slightly and groan. He paused to listen for the rhythmic snoring behind him then continued.

He squirted a bit more lube, transferred his dick to the other hand and reached back for his ass. Fuck, even the feel of his own fingers on his hole made him grunt and second guess his decision to let the kid have a go at him. Instead, he pressed a finger inside quickly, holding his breath and trapping the sounds in his throat.

The sounds that Ian loves.

Jesus, his heart was already pounding at the brief penetration and he wasn’t going to be able to stop his mind from bringing Ian into the fantasy. If he couldn’t have the real thing, then this would have to do.

With the dildo slicked up, he ran it between his ass cheeks a few times before pushing the tip inside. A harsh grunt escaped, but he didn’t have the wherewithal to stop himself from sliding the toy inside quickly. It just felt too freeing to escape into sex, even the solo variety.

The air in his lungs was almost painful from suppressed excitement bubbling in his veins and when he made contact with his prostate, all the pent up air--and emotion--escaped in a half assed shout of pleasure. He immediately found the spot again and started to pant.

Biting his lip to attempt to keep quiet wasn’t helping and he increased the pressure of his fingers, sliding up and down his dick frantically now, trying to find a rhythm between both of his hands and grunting when the dildo slipped between his slick fingers.

Then the bed shifted and he could tell that the body beside his was closer than it had been, but he was so close to coming that his blood was pumping in his ears and all he wanted was that 5 second oblivion and the calm that followed. No way was he going to acknowledge who was beside him because that would make everything about the situation way too fucking real and goddamn depressing.

Instead he kicked his right foot out behind him to create a shield while his free hand pumped his dick. When his body started to tense, he shoved his face into the pillow, momentarily sidetracked by the smell of fabric softener, so unfamiliar, his heart hurt. But his ass ached with pleasure and he was going to come without the baggage of 26 years to keep him company.

Ian’s beautiful fucking face smiled at him and he knew the second his name escaped his mouth because the bed shifted again. He panted into the pillow as those 5 seconds took over and left him weak and spent.

When awareness penetrated the fog, he listened for the snoring, unreasonably hoping the guy had fallen asleep, but the apartment was silent. The bed, however, was shifting rhythmically. Mickey knew that motion and suppressed yet another groan, but this one was from frustration. He wrapped up the dildo in tissue, then out of a sense of fair play, he tossed the lube in Byron's direction.

Mickey stared up at the patterned ceiling, wondering what the fuck he had gotten himself into? A situation involving some English nerd jacking off beside him while Ian plotted to throw Mickey’s plan back in his face at some stupid concert where he was going to have to watch assholes in suspenders play a harp.

To speed this shit up now that he was feeling spent enough to sleep, he decided to throw some half hearted encouragement the guy’s way. “Okay, you got this, Barry. Come--”

The guy flew out of the bed like it was on fire, glaring at Mickey as he wrapped his waif like body and flailing dick in a thick blanket.

“Jesus,” Mickey sighed. “This how you come, man?”

“I have a name,” he hissed. “And it’s Byron!”

“Yeah, no shit. We’ve met.” He stared at the dude in disbelief but also some not well suppressed sense of relief. “You feel it was time to formally introduce yourself?”

“You--you called me B-Barry.”

“Oh, oops, shit, sorry.”

“That’s all you have to say?”

“Uh, sorry. _Bryon?_ ”

“I’ll sleep on the sofa.” He made his words reality by storming over to the rigid piece of furniture.

Mickey closed his eyes, feeling for the first time since the courthouse that things were working in his favor.

**Gallagher House**

While the Grindr app loaded, Ian reviewed the marriage pros and cons list he’d started with Liam. He was feeling clearer about his direction after all his late night sessions with Fred and Tami. It had taken him a while to recognize that he truly was getting better. He’d come a long way from that self-destructive teen and even the frenzy that surrounded the Gay Jesus movement, and as he learned in prison group therapy, he needed to celebrate successes not focus on past mistakes. A lot of that success was his own doing, but he knew that Mickey’s presence in his life was the tipping point. It gave him an anchor that kept him from losing his way again.

He’d tried to find that anchor in his family, the army, Yev, a career, even other men, but he’d only ever truly felt it with Mickey. And now he was finally able to believe that it was the same thing for Mickey. He was Mickey’s anchor. It wasn’t just about the sacrifices he’d have to make to spend his life with Ian. It was about the good stuff that Ian brought to their life together.

The cons column of his list was filled with all the things Ian wanted to hate about himself, but which were inevitably part of who he was, and somehow those were all things Mickey accepted as part of loving Ian. He’d been accepting them for years. In fact, more than accepting them. Actively finding ways to ease Ian’s burden, to understand it, to shield him.

_He’s got me._

Ian was finally at a place, after 5 long years, where he could accept them too and not feel like a pathetic headcase. He needed to get Mickey to believe that he had finally realized this...and to truly trust him again. As much as he hated the idea of dating some guy, he needed to show up at the concert with some ammunition because apparently Mickey was dead set against talking, which left Ian with only action.

The app finally flicked to life and started demanding that he input a bunch of private information as well as a picture of himself. While he flicked through his camera roll looking for a selfie, he decided that if the threat of seeing Ian with another guy wasn’t enough to end this stupid ass fight, then Ian would get up on the fucking stage and ask Mickey to marry him in front of the entire audience. And if that didn’t work, he’d throw the stubborn dick over his shoulder and force him to come home where he goddamn well belonged.

First though, he needed to get a decent picture of himself if he was going to find a date.

[Watch “Aren’t you in love with Mickey?” courtesy of Tue](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vEFOxTtirVU)

**Byron’s Apartment**

After spending what felt like a goddamn hour making the bed, Byron adjusted the assorted pillows, fluffing the one that had the word SMILE stitched into it. The mood in the apartment was at best frosty, but it didn’t seem to stop the punk from spewing whatever was in his nerd brain.

“My absolute favorite song by Imperial Mammoth is _Separate the Magnets_. The harp solo is played in the lower register and resonates _forever_. Beautiful!”

“ _Mhm_ ,” Mickey mumbled, digging through all the clothes in his drawer in desperation, but coming up empty. “What’d you do with my smokes?”

“They smell awful.”

Mickey slammed the drawer shut, making sure the little shit knew he meant business. “ _And?_ ”

“And,” he tucked his scrawny shoulders back, chin held high, “I put them in the trash.”

Sniffing loudly, Mickey sucked on his bottom lip, ran a thumb over his forehead, then looked directly into Byron’s startled deer eyes. “Fuck did you say?”

The little bit of swagger the guy had shown fled at the sight of Mickey’s raised eyebrows, and Mickey felt a tiny twinge of regret, like maybe he was being a bully. But he wasn’t letting this shit go because he’d been fucking _respectful_ enough to smoke outside.

“Well, then,” he flicked his fingers toward the door. “Better run off and get me a new pack cause if you thought an empty ass made me bitchy, you don’t wanna be anywhere near me without my fucking smokes.”

**Gallagher House**

[Watch “He seems normal” courtesy of Tue](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l9sE-WwaXCY)

_IG138: Hi Cole. Concert starts at 8:00. Looking forward to seeing you in your best outfit._

Liam snorted. “Okay, grandma.”

“Shut up, you little shit,” Ian sniped, but leaned in toward his brother anyway. “So what, should I send him a close up of my nipples or something?”

“Better than that knitting needle you carry around with you.”

Before he could send anything, Cole replied. Two quick pings in succession.

_Cole69: leather or lace? Dealer’s choice._

_Cole69: nvm BOTH! 🔥🔥_

“Well,” Liam chimed in. “I guess he’s been on the dating market since Columbus arrived.”

“Jeez, kid, don’t hold back.”

Liam just shrugged.

_Ping._

_Cole69: what will I be calling those abs tonight?_

_IG138: Ian Gallagher?_

Ian ignored his little brother’s sigh as he tried to come up with something clever, but the wittiness he prided himself on was nowhere to be found.

_Cole69: you gonna buy a girl a drink first, Ian Gallagher? Get to know each other a little?_

_IG138: Of course. 7pm? Bar on Polaski called The Alibi?_

_Cole69: keep my seat warm🍊_

“Well that’s done,” Ian muttered.

“You think this will actually work?” Liam stuffed a hand between the couch cushions, probably looking for the remote control. “Mickey is gonna come back because you’ve got a date with some dude named Cole in a fancy outfit?”

“I got a back up plan too,” he explained vaguely, unsure that he wanted to vocalize his plan to his littlest critic. But he did pull out Frank’s old shoelace from where it hung on his neck again. “This.”

Liam frowned at the pair of rings before Ian tucked them back under his shirt. “Promise rings, Ian?”

“They’re...not promise rings anymore.”

“ _Nice_.”

They lapsed into silence, since Liam had found the remote and begun scrolling through Netflix new releases.

“Oh hey, what’s going on with school?” Ian asked, glancing at his phone when three more dick pic arrived. “I’m sure they can’t actually kick you out.”

“I have it on good authority that they can.”

“Who’s authority?”

The back door banged open and Lip’s voice interrupted them. “Ian, man, I need a favor.” He headed straight for the sofa, plopping a bundled up Fred into his arms and pulling the knitted beanie off his head.

“Debbie Daycare 2.0,” Ian cooed into his nephew’s little face. “Right, Freddie?”

Lip continued right out the front door with a mumbled, “Back in an hour!”

“Your dad is a shithead, isn’t he?” Ian continued to coo, getting something like a grin from the boy. “Ohhh who’s a shithead...whooooo?” Fred definitely grinned before stuffing his fist into his mouth. “Daddddddddyyyyy isssssssssssss.”

“Let Mickey hear you talk that way and you won’t have to worry about him wanting to marry you anymore,” Liam sighed.

Ian knocked his shoulder into Liam’s. “I’ll have you know, he loves it. Couldn’t get enough of it with Yev. Practically begs me to talk to him that way. You know when we’re in bed, he likes--”

“ _SHUT UP!_ ” Liam held his hands to his ears and Ian laughed, feeling like he’d gotten even with the sassy little shit.

When Fred started squirming to see the television that Liam had turned to some horror movie, Ian returned his attention to his brother. “Okay, so what’s going on at school?”

“I need Frank to prove I’m not scamming the school so I can go there.”

“What? Why the hell would you want to go to that shithole if you didn’t have to?”

“That’s what I said. But it’s better than going to a group home.”

“Oh shit,” Ian spat. He was fucking failing his parental duties. “Okay, so you tried the morgue. Hospitals?”

“Course.” He rolled his eyes at Ian.

“Officer Baritone?” Ian suggested. “He sits around in his car watching the neighborhood. Probably sees Frank embarrassing himself daily.”

“I’ll--

He was cut off by Fred’s ejection of the lunch he’d recently eaten. It landed on Ian’s chest and both brothers stared at it in shock.

“Oh shit,” Liam said, recoiling in disgust when Ian tried to put the baby in his lap. “No way.”

“Jesus, it doesn’t bite. I need to take my shirt off...again.” He laughed at the idea that he was removing his shirt because of baby vomit and how sexy his Grindr hookups would find that.

Liam held Fred like he was going to spew, so Ian hurriedly pulled his button down over his shoulders, and the doorbell rang.

“I’ll get it!” Liam said, dropping the baby back into Ian’s arms. He promptly started crying and Ian pressed him to his chest, rocking gently. “It’s for you, Ian.”

He looked up at Liam, who was leading a middle aged man into the living room. He was clearly some kind of official since no one in this neighborhood dressed like that--unless they were coming home from Old Army.

“Larry Seever,” he said offering his hand to Ian.

“Oh, hi.” Ian shook then went back to rocking Freddie since he had quieted. “Have a seat.”

“Courtesy call,” the man continued, plopping down into the armchair. “I would like to offer a formal apology on behalf of the Board of Corrections for the unforgivable behavior of one of our own.”

“Okay, uh, thanks.”

“You will be required to give a formal statement to the Board, at your earliest convenience.” He nodded to Ian’s injured leg. “We need to cross all the T’s and whatnot.”

Fred began to hiccup, so Ian patted his back.

“I’ve spoken to Mr Milkovich and understand that he’s in transition.”

Ian nodded, even though he wanted to vehemently deny it. But he couldn’t override Mickey on this.

“However, I wasn’t aware of this change when I requested authority over your case. I felt, at the time, I would be the best candidate. Would my connection to Mr Milkovich pose any problems for you as you Parole Officer?”

“No, not at all.” Every cell in Ian’s body wanted to scream that Mickey would be coming home tonight, but he managed to contain himself. The change in Ian’s mood must have transmitted to Fred because he started to howl.

Larry smiled. “A pacifier can sometimes help with hiccups.”

“Uh, I think there’s one in the playpen. _Liam_ ,” he yelled over the squawking baby. “Get the soother and can you turn the TV down, please?”

While they waited for Liam to plug Fred’s mouth, Larry looked around the house. “I see you have a comfortable family home. That’s good.”

“I suppose.” Ian laid Fred in his lap so he could fiddle with the pacifier.

“I’ve made a note that you are in early recovery from a broken leg, but we should begin talking about your re-entry into the workforce soon,” Larry raised his voice a little to be heard over Fred who clearly wanted no part of the pacifier business.

“That would be great.” He lifted Fred back up to his shoulder then lifted himself off the sofa so he could rock with his whole body. “I have medical training.”

He kept the hope out of his voice, but he had to put it out there in case the guy really was a do-gooder, who could word magic like his magician son.

“Oh yes, I’m familiar with your history and I have some ideas!”

“Really?”

“Yes, the state will look favorably on the fact that your conviction did not involve theft, deception or infliction of intentional, unjustified harm to others.”

Ian tightened his hold on Fred as he absorbed this.

“However, my suggestions might require minimal additional training, if you’re open to that.”

Ian nodded, unsure what exactly that meant but, hell, he’d do a full certificate again if it meant working at a job he loved.

“Great!” Larry beamed at him and Fred started chewing on Ian’s t-shirt. “One final matter.”

The seriousness of that caught Ian’s attention and he braced himself, hoping it had nothing to do with Mickey’s ability to come home.

“I’d like to sit down with you at some point,” he paused to nod at the baby. “When you’re not distracted and available to discuss your mental health plan. I understand this can be a touchy subject but I take my job seriously, Mr Gallagher. As you might be aware, a haphazard approach to mental health is the leading cause of re-offending.”

Ian shuddered at the memory of how eager he had been to open up to Paula about all this when he first met her, thinking she would want to know what Ian was doing to keep himself on the straight and narrow. Well, he’d come full circle with Larry Seever.

“Sure, that sounds good.”

After one final handshake, he saw Larry out and dropped down beside Liam again, watching Fred’s eyes start to droop and wondering who else might show up. “When it rains, it pours.”

Shrugging, Liam concluded, “Pretty much a hurricane most days.”

He adjusted Fred into the crook of his left arm, so he could sling the other around Liam’s shoulders, wondering when the last time was that someone had snuggled this kid. “While you talk to Baritone, I’ll call Fi and get her to run interference with the school until Frank turns up.” In the morgue, preferably.

**Bryon’s Apartment**

While keeping an eye on the clock perched on a stack of books and wondering if the time could pass any slower, Mickey flipped through a copy of _Architectural Digest_. He studied the layout of a New York city loft and how the floor to ceiling windows let in so much light that it made the room almost shine. It amazed him that places like this existed in the world since he’d spent his life in cramped, nearly windowless shitholes.

“Yo Professor Plum,” he said, looking up to find Byron still going through his primping ritual. At this point, the guy was futzing with the little scarf tied around his neck and Mickey returned his gaze to the magazine rather than torture himself with that visual. “You know what a _fing shooey_ is?”

“Do you mean _feng shui_?”

“Do I look fucking Chinese to you?”

Byron lifted his chin in that little bitch way he had before replying. “It’s a concept not a thing and it’s about achieving harmony within your home by--”

“Shit, how ‘bout you _fung shway_ some of that harmony in this home right now?”

The tension in the apartment had about reached the breaking point, and Mickey wasn’t sure how much more he could take of this guy using Mickey’s South Side upbringing as a way to make himself look like a know-it-all douchebag.

Certain that his last nerve had been shot with this stupid conversation, he pushed up from the sofa and grabbed his new pack of Marlboros from the nightstand. The bed was made to within an inch of its life even though Byron hadn’t slept in it for two nights, and all Mickey’s shit was stuffed into the nightstand drawer--along with the goddamn dildo that made him cringe at the thought.

“Goin’ downstairs,” he muttered, not looking at the guy for a response. Just letting the apartment door shut behind him with relief.

The smoke was lit by the time he stepped onto the street. It was still semi-daylight but the street lights were on and the air had that late September evening bite to it. Inhaling deeply, he leaned against the side of the building, watching people hustle around him.

His phone buzzed, and he slipped the smoke between his lips to read the text. Ian hadn’t texted him in a couple days, and as much as those late night messages begging Mickey to come home wreaked havoc on his decision to wait until Ian was actually all in, he still felt a kick to the chest when Ian stopped sending them. At least the current message held good news.

Sandy (5:58pm): deal is done. after expenses you cleared just over 10 grand

Mickey (5:59pm): you take your cut?

Sandy (5:50pm): course

Mickey (6:00pm): good. might need you to stop by the gallagher house with some cash

Sandy (6:00pm): can do

Mickey (6:01pm): let u know tomorrow and thanks. For everything. I really appreciate it

Sandy (6:01pm): okay you pussy

He smiled, locating the middle finger emoji and holding it down until his thumb started to ache. When he looked up, a tall blond dude slowed his steps as he passed Mickey, giving their eye contact the extra beat that signaled the universal offer to hook up in the nearest semi-private location. Mickey stared back but continued to drag harshly from his cigarette and the guy kept moving. His life hadn’t come to that yet. After tonight, who knew. He wasn’t spending any more time with Barry, that much was certain. If it was going to take time for Ian to get his head out of his ass, then Mickey was shacking up with someone he could fucking tolerate.

Out of what was fast becoming a bad habit, he gave his thumb nail a good gnawing as he pictured Ian showing up to the concert with his goddamn date. It was as obvious as shit that the idea had occurred to Ian while he stood on the street that day, but Mickey’s bitchy side wondered what had taken the redhead so long to find someone else. Being single and Ian didn’t mix well.

Snubbing the smoke out with his boot, he tried to prepare himself to see Ian with some rando, and Mickey couldn’t decide whether the dude would be hot or a 100 years old. Either way, he imagined them cozied up together, Ian laughing at the guy’s jokes and touching him. Buying Ian things and kissing him.

“Motherfucker,” he spat, turning back toward the apartment building door intent on releasing some of his frustration on _his_ date.

**The Alibi**

[Watch “Where Ian Gallagher at?” courtesy of Tue](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zZXanFg3O-Q)

Waving off the shot of cognac, Ian kept the strained smile on his face and worked hard to ignore the looks Kev and every patron in the Alibi were sending his way.

“Who’s your...friend?” Kev asked.

“I’m Cole,” the man offered, holding a hand out to the bartender. “Charmed.”

“Uh, same,” Kev mumbled, shaking briefly before staring in confusion at Ian. “Where you two _lovebirds_ headed tonight?”

“Gonna listen to some live music,” Ian explained, while he twirled the remaining whisky in his glass and forced himself not to flee. Cole seemed like a decent guy, if a little flamboyant, but having a flesh and blood person to deal with made his whole revenge plan far less appetizing than it had been when Cole was only handle on Grindr.

“Yeah? Up at Reggie’s? Hear Ricky Rat is playing there again.”

“No. Little further...north,” Ian explained vaguely.

“Kev! Our guests are leaving!” Vee called.

“Well, have fun, fellas,” Kev glanced at Cole, eyes darting over his see-through top before joining Vee and leaving Ian alone with his date, who clinked their glasses playfully.

Inhaling, Ian gave Cole with another smile. “You found the place okay?”

“Bitch, I’m Chicago born and raised. Although,” he paused to glance around the Alibi, “I clearly need to get out more.” He leaned in until his shiny lips were inches from Ian’s. “Tell me how many people have been murdered here.”

“Uh, two.”

Cole’s eyes twinkled with pleasure and his fingers walked up Ian’s chest, until his index finger tapped Ian’s lower lip. “Drink up, big boy.”

Ian obediently sipped his remaining whisky because he was at a loss for what else to do and he sure as hell wasn’t going to acknowledge all the looks they were getting. He hadn’t hidden his sexuality for years and didn’t give a shit what people here thought about him, but having Cole as a date was like wielding a neon queer sign.

“We should probably get going.” He pushed out of his chair, laying some cash on the bartop. “The L ride will take us--”

“ _Exsqueeze_ me? Do I _look_ like a basic bitch? _This_ is not some off the rack shit.” He fluttered a hand up and down his torso, stopping briefly at his lace covered nipples. “She does not ride the L. _Na-uh_.”

“Right. Uber?” Ian offered, grabbing for his phone before this became a scene. He barely had two cents to rub together since he’d been out of work for almost a week, and his measly savings account wasn’t going to get him through much longer. But he swiped into the app anyway. He’d asked the guy out, after all.

Mercifully, a Yaris driven by Mohamed was around the corner, so he ushered his date out the door. The moment they were seated, Cole’s phone pinged and he dug it out of his sparkly purse.

“ _Shiiit_ , look what that bitch Tod is up to?” He showed Ian his phone screen. “Manscaping is so last season, amirite?”

Ian glanced quickly at the photo, despite having seen way too much NSFW shit for one day. He nodded but also couldn’t stop himself from asking, “What’s in _this_ season?”

Pursing his lips, Cole eyed Ian slowly. “You’ll find out. Speaking of…” Once again he leaned in so their lips were a little too close for comfort and those determined fingers made a trip along Ian’s inner thigh this time, stopping a hair’s breadth from his balls. “Were your carpet and drapes cut from the same cloth, handsome? _Seriously_ , I’ve been burned before. _Ohhh_ don’t tell me. I wanna find out myself.”

Ian was trapped in his seat, afraid if he moved that those fingers would find what they were looking for.

“ _Mmm_ , the strong silent type. Lemme guess,” Cole purred, eyes narrowed and assessing. “My boy’s a top looking to get with a power bottom.”

Naturally, Ian reacted to this because it was literally all he wanted tonight. One power bottom to come home with him and never, ever leave.

“Oh sweet Lord!” Cole fanned himself and thankfully he used his exploring hand to do it. “Maybe we should skip the whole concert scene. Get down to business.”

Ian started to shake his head, but Cole’s phone came to life signaling an incoming call.

“Driver! Driver!”

Mohamed turned his head briefly and Ian sank into his seat further as Cole waved at the buttons on the man’s console.

“Silence that racket. Tod needs me!”

Mohamed turned off the radio, while Cole hit the phone symbol and launched into a one sided conversation that allowed Ian some space to breathe, to think about what it would take for Mickey to end up in his bed tonight. The thing he loved most about Mickey, the fact that he is who he is without giving a shit about other people's opinions, was also the thing that Ian was up against.

A screech interrupted his thoughts, and he risked a look at Cole. “Yeah, yeah, we’re on our way now...Uber, no hobo germs gettin’ on these fine threads...girrrl...shut up!...oh she be a sleazy ass _beeeee-atch._..tell me more!”

Ian’s eyes met Mohamed’s in the rearview mirror and he shrugged. The whole thing would actually be hilarious if he wasn’t about to see Mickey and have to convince him that their future was in danger because Ian had found the new love of his life.

**Imperial Mammoth Concert**

[Watch “What’s he doing?” courtesy of Tue](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sQsKaGjWAHU)

Mickey continued to sip his beer while Ian made his way over to his date, who had waved a sparkly little purse at Ian to get his attention. As if the twerking wasn’t attention getting enough.

A sense of peace filled Mickey for the first time this week, and he knew that it meant he’d forgiven Ian. The guy was hobbling around on his crutches, trying to control his date who had halfway climbed onto the bartop to get the bartender’s attention. He’d tracked Mickey to Bryon’s twice, agreed to this whole double date charade and sent a hundred text messages pouring out his heart.

It had been years since Ian Gallagher had chased Mickey Milkovich around the South Side and altered the course of his life. Maybe Mickey finally believed that he was still worth chasing. And maybe it was time to listen to Ian.

He looked around the club for his own damn date, finding him a couple of feet away talking to two dudes, who kept flicking glances in Mickey’s direction. He met Byron’s gaze briefly just as a new song started. The whine of the harp drew Bryon’s attention to the stage, so Mickey headed up to the bar for another beer.

As the band played what sounded like the same song on repeat and Mickey tried to stay awake, he kept his eyes on all the players in this Shakespearean romance. Byron left his two buddies and made his way over to Ian and Cole, shaking hands with the blond and obviously finding something in common because Ian slipped away to the bathroom while the pair kept up their chatter.

The music quieted and Mickey pushed between several patrons to get closer to the gabbing princesses, figuring he’d get some Intel on this Cole dude while Ian was out of the picture.

“Is that vintage?” Byron asked, a little awe in his voice.

“ _Biiiiitch_ , I’m a vintage vixen.” Cole twirled once, then kicked a foot out. “Did you see these fabulicious Cuban heels?”

Mickey had heard enough to last a lifetime and started to turn away before they noticed him, but Byron opened his mouth, stopping Mickey in his tracks. “Are you and Ian...exclusive?”

Cole laughed loudly, getting the attention of everyone in his vicinity. “Honey, there’s not a man alive who could single-handedly manage this masterpiece. It takes a village, as they say.”

Clearly more interested in Ian’s status than in Cole’s outrageous claims, Byron persisted. “So, it’s an open relationship?”

“Why, girl?” Cole’s voice deepened. “That little brunet bad boy not scratchin’ your itch?”

“Gawd, no,” Byron bitched. “Let’s just say we are not compatible.”

“Where he at?”

Mickey froze, beer bottle stalled on his lower lip as two sets of eyes turned to him.

“What?” he growled.

“Tough guy, huh?” Cole closed the gap between them, and Byron headed toward one of the booths rather than spend a moment with Mickey. Since the feeling was mutual, Mickey waved his fingers in farewell.

Feeling Cole’s dark eyes rake his body, Mickey looked at him. “Can I help you?”

“ _Mmm_ , you’re not from around here.”

“Ya think?”

“I think you need a bevvy, wound up tight as a shit whistle.”

Mickey’s eyebrows hit his hairline, but he had to chuckle as Cole used his whole body to signal the bartender for ten more drinks. At that point, Ian emerged from the restroom, leaning heavily on his crutches, eyes scanning the club. When they landed on Mickey and Cole, he frowned and Mickey feigned interest in the band.

“This bitch is baaaaaaack,” Cole announced, holding a Hennessy in each hand and offering one to Mickey, who waved it off in favor of his beer. “Suit yourself.”

Mickey watched from his periphery as Ian made his way toward the booth where Byron was yakking with his buddies. He kept shooting Mickey looks, which he pretended to ignore.

“Nice outfit,” he muttered to Cole.

“This old thang--” Cole balked “--is not an _outfit_ , bitch. It’s a fucking statement.”

“No lie there.”

He glanced at Ian again, feeling a desperate need to get the fuck out of here and wondering if he should just demand that Ian take him home.

“That tall drink of water is my ride tonight,” Cole purred and Mickey’s fists clenched. “If you know what I mean.”

Oh, Mickey knew what he meant all right.

[Watch “Of course I’ll marry you” courtesy of Tue](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dH5l5WbO3G4)

“Jesus fucking Christ, Gallagher,” Mickey inhaled, lips still close enough to Ian’s to brush them as he spoke. “You're a damn fool.”

Ian’s fingers tightened around Mickey’s neck, keeping him close. “A fool cause I almost lost you.”

Tapping his cheek, Mickey stepped away. “A fool who’s gonna get arrested if we don’t get the fuck outta here.”

“Yeah,” Ian panted. He looked down, briefly, at the three men sitting on the floor at his feet. Bryon leaned on one elbow, his arm still wrapped around Ian’s crutches. “Shit.”

“Shit is right.” Mickey squatted down next to Byron and whatever passed between Ian couldn’t see, but he tugged the crutches free then stuffed them under Ian’s arms, then grabbed his jacket from the back of a chair. “Hustle your ass, Rambo.”

Ignoring the groaning coming from the other two men and the disbelieving looks they were getting from the entire room, Ian followed Mickey out the front door before whatever trance the concert goers were under was replaced by action.

It was now fully dark, street lights and headlights lit up the night as they kept up their pace until they were a couple blocks from the venue.

“Seriously,” Mickey said when he slowed to put his coat on. “You trying to get your ass thrown back in prison?”

“If that’s what it takes to shut that troll up. Fucking fuck him!”

Ian was suddenly livid again, still processing the adrenaline that had started when his fist met Byron’s stupid face. God, it had felt good, but it didn’t hold a candle to the look on Mickey’s face when he’d said yes to Ian's proposal.

“Fuck, Mickey.”

They were passing the entrance to an alley a block from the club, and all that adrenaline had pooled heavily in Ian’s groin, so he came to an abrupt stop, chest tight with the need to express himself.

“ _Mick_.”

As he swiveled to look at Ian, the immediate concern on his face shifted to surprise when he sensed the desire oozing from Ian’s pours. Angling his crutches so he could swing into the alley, Ian had no doubts that his chronically horny boyfriend would follow.

By the time Ian was in the shadows, Mickey was there too, his hands on Ian’s chest moving lower until they could grab at the shirt covering his abs, pushing it up and out of his way. His fingers were cool and smooth and Ian wanted them all over his body. He pressed forward until they smacked into the brick-sided building, lips meeting hungrily. Forgetting about the crutches tucked under his arms, he grasped the sides of Mickey’s head, angling it for better access to his mouth. The sound of his crutches hitting the broken pavement didn’t deter either of them.

“Jesus, I missed you.” He started sucking at Mickey’s jaw and neck, grinding himself against his body in desperation. “Let’s never fight again.”

“As if that’s possible,” Mickey panted and pawed at Ian’s lower back. “You’re too fucking annoying.”

“God, you scared the shit out of me.”

“Yeah, well, you hurt me, asshole.”

Ian held Mickey’s head firmly, hating the image of his face in the courthouse elevator but knowing it was burned into his memory, another in the long slideshow of hurt.

“Why do I keep doing that?”

Mickey’s eyes softened, his breath warm on Ian’s face as he wrapped his arms around Ian’s waist. “Cause you’re an asshole, I already told ya.”

Ian laughed, so fucking in love and so fucking aware of it.

“The asshole that I fuckin' love.” Mickey smiled at him.

“Let’s go ho--”

_“Bitch, that better not be blood on my jumpsuit!”_

They froze, bodies pressed together in the darkened alley, faces turned toward the voices carrying from the street.

_“My father ith going to be livith if he hath to redo my rhinoplathy!”_

By that point, Cole and Bryon were practically standing next to Mickey and Ian, but they never turned toward the alley. Byron held a square of cloth against his nose, face tipped up to the dark night sky.

_“My Vethpa is around the corner.”_

Ian looked at Mickey, eyes wide with suppressed laughter and whispered in his ear. “It’s not funny that his nose might be broken, Mick.”

“Kinda is though.”

Ian kissed his earlobe, feeling Mickey shiver when he pulled the flesh into his mouth and bit a little harder than necessary. They were both hard enough that it wouldn’t take much to finish the job, and Ian let his forehead drop to Mickey’s shoulder.

“Take me home and fuck me, Ian.”

“God,” Ian moaned. He was trying to get his shit together to do exactly that, but it seemed really unreasonable for Mickey to expect him not to blow his load right here when he said shit like that.

After one final tongue filled kiss, Ian managed to hop backward, looking for his crutches, which Mickey scooped up and held steady for Ian. They made their way to the bus stop, while keeping an eye out for a mint green Vespa and two angry queens.

“So you gonna gimme my fucking promise ring now?” Mickey said, once they were in the glass enclosed transit structure.

He slipped a finger under the shoelace peeking out from Ian’s shirt collar. The rings slid along his chest and eventually emerged from his shirt. Ian looked down at them, at the way Mickey played with the silver discs before letting them drop to Ian’s chest.

“Nope,” Ian said, looking over Mickey’s shoulder at the lights from oncoming traffic. “Oh, I think that’s our bus.”

“Fuck you mean _no_?”

Ian hopped toward the edge of the sidewalk so the bus driver would know to stop. “Well, Mick, you didn’t let me propose so...”

“Are you joking?” Mickey stepped up beside him, hands on his hips and Ian bit back his grin. “So...we’re not getting married then?”

The bus pulled up, brakes screeching. “Oh, we’re getting married, all right.” The door opened with a swoosh and Ian swung his crutches onto the first step. “ _After_ you actually let me propose.”

He could hear Mickey grumbling behind him as they made their way down the aisle, passing three people on their phones.

“I’ve got a whole ass pussy speech to give and give it I will.” He dropped down to a seat near the rear exit, feeling the physical effects of the last half hour. “Ugh.”

His injured leg wouldn’t fit in the cramped space, and he tried to take some of the weight off by shifting in his seat. Mickey sat beside him, gently pulling the aching leg across his lap. “You got any pain killers on you?”

Leaning his back against the window, Ian found two pills in his jacket pocket and swallowed them dry. “Ian Gallagher is never without pills.”

Mickey’s fingers dug into the muscle of Ian’s thigh, massaging some of the tension away. They both watched him work, tattooed fingers strong and confident on Ian’s aching flesh.

“I think my knuckles hurt more,” he complained, clenching and unclenching the fingers of his right hand until Mickey linked his fingers between Ian’s. He smiled almost shyly at Ian like they were on their first date instead of a decade into their tumultuous relationship.

Bringing their hands to his lips, Ian kissed the crudely drawn “U” of his ring finger. “Best decision I ever made was trying to get that gun back.”

Mickey snorted, watching Ian press their hands to his chest where the two metal bands lay. “Yup, that was fucking brilliant, Gallagher.”

Ian smiled slyly, eyes narrowed in challenge. “Best decision you ever made was to _pretend_ you needed all those snacks you stole from the store.”

“Fuck you.” Mickey snorted a second time, fingers tightening almost painfully around Ian’s.

“You were stealing random shit for _months_.” Ian grinned over this long standing debate they had going. “You must’ve really loved Big Red gum, huh?”

“More like I love a Hostess _ding dong_.”

Ian laughed in delight and not a little cockiness. “One day I’m gonna get you to admit it.”

“Fuck you is what I'll admit.” But he had to nudge his lips with a knuckle to wipe the grin off.

“If I'd had pigtails you'd a pulled them.”

“If you’d had pigtails we wouldn't be having this convo, man.” He tugged his hand free and went back to massaging Ian’s thigh.

Ian shrugged. “One day…”

“Whatever you _think_ happened back then is going to the grave with me.”

“Not a problem, I’m gonna follow you there.” He smiled when Mickey looked up at him, hands paused on Ian’s leg. “You’re not just the love of this life.”

“Okay, Casanova, keep it in your pants.” But his happy grin was back.

“Speaking of keeping it _your_ pants.”

Mickey’s eyebrows lifted in question, but Ian was having trouble finding the words to ask something he’d rather not think about but simultaneously couldn’t not think about.

“You wondering _exactly_ how tight Barry’s asshole really is?”

“Jesus Christ, Mickey!”

Two of the other riders glanced at them, and Ian glared at Mickey like it was all his fault.

“I have no idea, Ian.”

Okay, that felt good. “Does he, uh, know how tight yours is?”

Mickey waited a beat, maybe deciding if he wanted to let Ian off the hook or not, then he shrugged. “Not really.”

“Not...really?”

“How much do you wanna know?”

“I don’t fucking know.” Ian huffed out a breath. “Just tell me you didn’t blow him.”

“I did not blow him.” They held each other’s gaze, while a decade of shit passed between them and settled like dust around them. “You good, now?”

“Yeah.”

“I got a question,” Mickey began, still holding Ian’s eyes with his direct stare. “Why’d you change your mind? Were you worried that Barry would win me over before you got around to wanting me?”

“ _Mick_ ,” Ian plead, unsure which part of that sentence he hated the most. “Don’t say it like that please. Gawd, and don’t fucking call him the love of your fucking life!”

“About that,” Mickey said, licking his bottom lip. “He’s not. Turns out that’s you, Gallagher.”

“So you just wanted to smash my heart into a million pieces?” He felt a pout coming on thinking about all the bullshit Mickey had said to torment him.

“Trying to kick your ass into motion.”

“How long were you gonna let this bullshit go on for? Before coming home?”

“Until you got your shit together.”

 _“Really?”_ Jesus, that terrified Ian because it could have taken him a hell of a lot longer to realize he deserved to be happy.

“Fuck no. But I was gonna try.”

Ian looked down at his lap, snagging Mickey’s hand again and holding it tightly. “You’re my Fred.”

“You wanna maybe explain that?”

“He’s the most important thing in Lip’s life. He’d do anything for him. And that’s why I knew.”

Mickey had that soft, almost vulnerable look on his face that brought out Ian’s protective side because he knew it was his alone.

“You’re my Fred too,” Mickey whispered with a head shake. “You’re such a fucking dork.”

“Takes one to know one.”

They cracked up as the bus pulled into their neighborhood.

**Gallagher House**

[Watch “Lip is moving to Milwaukee” courtesy of Tue](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OIF1S-kFdAk)

[by Steorie](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/steorie)

The moment they entered the bedroom, Ian tossed his crutches on the dresser and yanked off his jacket, eager to get them both naked and do things to Mickey that were still illegal in some states.

“You worried about Lip?” Mickey asked, setting both of their jackets on top of the crutches, eyes widening when Ian gave him a disbelieving look.

“I don’t wanna talk about Lip.”

“What do you wanna talk about then?” He grinned as Ian pull his t-shirt over his head and throw it randomly toward the dresser, then remove the rings from around his neck. When he laid them carefully on the dresser rather than slip one on Mickey’s finger, Mickey prompted him. “Marriage? Kids? Retirement?”

Ian wrapped both arms around Mickey’s neck and laid a kiss on him that he hoped would clearly show how he felt about those things. Mickey squeezed his ass cheeks in response. Opening his eyes, Ian stepped back until he could drop down to the edge of the bed and grab Mickey’s belt loop.

“I definitely want those things with you, Mick. Like we almost had once.” He tugged Mickey forward until he straddled Ian’s lap. The weight of him felt so familiar that Ian wanted to howl. Determined to show him how badly he was missed, Ian started unhooking the buttons on his shirt. “I had some crazy fantasies about us back then, ya know? Lifelong commitment wasn’t ever far from my mind even though I burned it all to the ground.”

“Do we really have t--”

Ian flicked a look up at Mickey, fingers still moving on the buttons. “I promise I’m not gonna start whining. I just need you to understand something.”

“Yeah, okay.”

Mickey laid his hands on Ian’s shoulders and tilted his head in concentration. It was so sincere, so honest, so consistent with how Mickey loved that Ian pressed a kiss to his lips, hoping it was even half as honest in its need. When he pulled back, he got a glimpse of Mickey's smile and suspected it was.

“I didn’t feel off once while you were gone,” he began.

“That’s real good. I was worried about that.”

“Partly because I’ve been trying to be aware of what I’m doing, but being with you the last year made all the difference.” He went back to unhooking buttons, finishing the final two before he continued. “I'm going to crash at some point and you’re gonna be there. Maybe it won’t be so bad.”

Shrugging the shirt over his shoulders, Mickey freed his arms so he could cup Ian’s face. “You bet your ass I’m gonna be here. I’m aware of everything you do, Ian. If I gotta, I’ll throw you over my shoulder and get you help. Cause...I’ll be your fucking husband.”

That called for another long, deep kiss. His hands ran up Mickey’s spine, pulling his body closer, feeling the skin of their chests rub almost roughly, but he needed to end the kiss so he could clear some things up between them.

“What do _you_ need? From me.”

“To know what you were thinking at the courthouse.”

Ian nodded, patting Mickey’s thigh. “Get up and take your pants off.”

While Mickey stripped, Ian slid along the bed until he was close enough to the nightstand to reach the lube then he tugged Mickey and his naked body back to his lap. “That’s better.”

“I’ll fucking say.”

Looking at all the exposed skin in his lap, Ian released a breath. “I saw Monica’s name on the marriage registration just as I was about to sign, and I imagined her and Frank, fucked up on meth and mania, deciding they should get married for fucking shits and giggles. I don’t _ever_ want my life with you to look like that. Ever.”

He flipped open the lid on the lube.

“We’re gonna have enough challenges, Mickey. I don’t wanna add to them by making major decisions on the spur of the moment, ya know?”

He squeezed some lube onto the fingers of his left hand then tossed the container on the bed next to Mickey’s bare knee.

“I know you thought I wasn’t choosing you...again. But it wasn’t that. I just can’t lose you _again_ , so I wanna do it right. Make sure I’m doing shit properly.”

He cupped the back of Mickey’s head, reaching up to meet his lips while sliding his slick fingers over his opening making tiny circles and feeling Mickey’s body relax into his own. Ian slipped his tongue into Mickey’s mouth as his finger entered his body, knowing what his man liked. He tightened his hand around Mickey’s head so he couldn’t move, couldn’t get away from Ian’s tongue while he intensified the pressure from his fingers.

When Mickey’s panting interfered with their ability to kiss, Ian released his head and Mickey laid his cheek on Ian’s bare shoulder, nose and lips pressed to Ian’s neck.

“I love you.” Ian pressed a line of awkward kisses along his shoulder, needing to get his lips back on Mickey in some way

“How can _you_ be sure?” Mickey whispered against his skin. “Cause you loved those other guys so you know?”

Ian shook his head, the scratch of stubble where their cheeks met felt so familiar and he closed his eyes in relief. “No, cause I didn’t love them.” He slid a second finger in, and Mickey entire body reacted. “They weren’t you.”

Mickey moaned into the side of Ian’s neck, face pressed close, arms tight around Ian’s shoulders. The vulnerability of it got to Ian, and he worked his fingers deeper into Mickey’s body, hoping he would let himself go completely because he felt safe with Ian.

“You’re perfect...for me,” he whispered. He could feel Mickey’s abs tighten in response to the words and the slide of his fingers in his body, hot breath tingled along Ian’s neck with each moan that escaped.

“You want my mouth down there?” When he got no response, just continued panting, Ian clenched his own abs and lowered his hand to Mickey’s back, pulling him close and trapping his cock between their bodies. He could feel Mickey leaking onto Ian’s stomach with each shift of his hips as the friction was replaced with a smooth glide.

Ian was hard, his dick felt tight against the unforgiving jean material, but it was his heart that was truly about to burst. “You wanna come now?”

“No?” He shoved his face harder into Ian’s neck and bit at the skin, making Ian chuckle.

“I’ll fuck you later. Promise.”

“ _Ahhh_. Now, Ian.”

“You’ll have to stand up.”

“Can’t.”

Mickey leaned back into Ian’s hand, hips rolling, mouth on Ian’s the whole time. Ian had a moment of indecision, knowing Mickey was about three thrusts from coming hard. After which he’d sleep like a baby, but Ian decided they needed something more before they curled up together.

“Up,” he said, removing his hand from Mickey’s cock but keeping his other hand buried in his body. He knew exactly what made Mickey bitchy.

With a grunt, Mickey slid off, bare feet hitting the carpet while his hands remained on Ian’s shoulders and his legs tucked between Ian’s knees. A flush had traveled over his chest and up to his pinkened cheeks. Ian kissed the skin of his belly before wrapping his fingers around Mickey cock and bringing it to his tongue and fully into his mouth.

“Nah, fuck.”

Mickey’s fingers clawed at the muscles along Ian’s shoulders and had to be leaving marks. Marks that Ian was going to savor. He bobbed his head quickly, feeling Mickey already start to coat the back of his throat. Then suddenly his mouth was empty.

“Come back here,” he commanded when Mickey stepped back and forced Ian’s fingers to slip out of his ass.

“I said take me home and _fuck_ me, Ian.” Mickey shoved at Ian’s now tender shoulders, pushing him back onto the bed and attacking the button and zipper on Ian’s jeans.

“Right, you definitely did say that.”

They smiled at each other quickly, and Mickey swatted his hip. “Lift your ass.”

He got Ian’s jeans down to his thighs before realizing the amount of work it would be to get them over his cast and boot, so he left them where they were and found the lube. Ian shimmied the material further down his legs, managing to free the foot of his good leg by the time Mickey straddled him.

The weight of his compact body settled on Ian, knees tucked tight around him and he breathed a sigh of relief when Mickey ran his wet palm down Ian’s dick then lined himself up.

“ _Ahhh_ ,” they moaned, definitely loud enough to be heard a couple of bedrooms over but Ian didn’t give a shit who heard them.

“Come on, ride me,” he ground out, fingers tight on Mickey’s hips. “Fucking hard.”

Mickey opened his eyes, blazing with lust and he nodded once, lower lip between his teeth. “Better hang on then,” he said and Ian laughed.

“I _love_ fucking you.”

He let Mickey set the pace, taking Ian inside him over and over until they were a sweaty fucking mess and clawing at each other’s bodies. A bunch of mindless words passed between them and at one point, Ian thought he heard someone yell at them. He tried to get his mouth on Mickey’s but the guy was giving Ian exactly what he’d asked for. And more.

It was a goddamn miracle that either of them lasted long enough to work up a sweat, but Ian forced his muscles to relax each time they wanted to tense with his impending orgasm. His jaw clenched almost painfully each time the hot tightness of Mickey’s body pulled him inside. He had to squeeze his eyes closed at the sight of Mickey’s cock bobbing against his belly with each thrust.

Eventually, Ian was past the point of no return and he touched Mickey. His palm slid over the wet tip then down the length as his fingers tightened. Mickey exploded with a long groan, come sliding between Ian’s fingers. Then he collapsed onto Ian’s chest as Ian thrust his hips up a couple more times. The sensation of Mickey around him and the weight of his relaxed body on his caused Ian’s orgasm to hit hard and he groaned his way through it.

With his arm wrapped tightly around Mickey, his body relaxed and he might have blacked out briefly because the next thing he knew Mickey was rolling away and grabbing at the toilet paper they kept in the drawer. The scratchy feel of the paper against his belly where his sticky hand rested pulled him completely back into the awareness.

Prying his eyes open, Ian looked for Mickey, who’d disappeared from view so he propped himself up to his elbows. The dark head was visible between Ian’s knees and he stretched further to see Mickey separating the Velcro that held Ian’s boot together. Once it was off, Ian’s jeans slid easily down his leg and over his cast.

“Meds and pain killer?” Mickey asked after standing up. When Ian remained silent, Mickey looked at him and Ian saw the regret on his face over what happened on the courthouse steps. Instead of ruining the peaceful ease they’d established, Ian pointed at the night stand, dropping his eyes to Mickey’s body, to the soft skin and spent cock. That’s all he cared about tonight.

“Get up,” he tapped Ian’s thigh and picked up the water glass from the nightstand. “Let’s go pee.”

Groaning as he pushed to a seated position, Ian gave Mickey an innocent smile. “Okay, mommy.”

“That’s daddy to you.” Mickey rolled his eyes, hands finding Ian’s to help him to his feet. They paused where they stood with only an inch between them.

“Nope,” Ian said confidently. “It’s hubby to me.”


	21. Episode 10: Extended Cut

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you were wondering what happened between the end of episode 10 and the beginning of episode 11, you've come to the right place. 
> 
> See the end notes for trigger warnings. Nothing graphic happens in this chapter but past events come up.
> 
> As well, this is another long chapter, so I'll see you on Saturday morning. 
> 
> This chapter is dedicated to KaitlinH27 <3

**Yorktown Center Shopping Mall**

_Ping_.

For the zillionth time since his shift started eight hours ago, Mickey’s ass vibrated and yet he still jumped in surprise despite expecting another incoming text message. Apparently Ian needed a fucking job because the guy was using Mickey’s phone like a lifeline. For the first six hours of his shift it was regular day to day stuff. Ian telling him about changing Fred’s diaper. Ian suggesting that they buy hemp bed sheets from some fucking place called Crate and Barrel. Ian offering to bring him a second sandwich when Mickey said he was still hungry.

But the last two hours, Ian had been on a mission.

One that Mickey was having a hard time faulting him for, even though it had made the time since his dinner break really fucking uncomfortable _and_ unproductive. A loss prevention officer’s job was to focus on his surroundings not on the boner his boyfriend was trying to give him.

“The marigold Polo shirts have arrived,” Nelson noted after checking his clipboard and giving the Old Army employees huddled around him a smile. “In time for the fall promotions, I might add.”

Mickey shot an annoyed look at the circle of co-workers who were listening intently to Nelson, their team leader, who as far as Mickey was concerned hadn’t said one damn thing worth calling a team meeting over.

When Nelson’s right hand man, Delilah, plopped a large cardboard box onto the staff room table, employees crowded around her like it was Christmas morning. She pulled out a stack of yellowy-orange shirts that made Mickey frown. And his ass buzzed again.

Stepping outside the circle, he pressed a thumb to his phone screen and Ian’s latest unread message popped up.

Ian (9:16pm): ohh I forgot the nipple pinching! How could I forget that Mick? Pretty sure your cock was in my mouth at the time. Yeah, that seems likely since that’s the place I prefer your cock to be.

Before he could finish reading that, another text rolled in and he swallowed, hard, feeling sweat form under his lilac Polo shirt. This had been happening since 7:00 almost non-stop as Ian tried to remember every damn thing he’d written in Mickey’s sketchbook back in Beckman. He’d gotten the chin for two hours yesterday when he’d found out that Mickey had chucked all his art during his cell cleaning, and that included the dirty fucking novel Ian had written.

Annoyed by the pouting, Mickey had suggested that Ian write him a new novel of all the shit he wanted to do to Mickey’s body. And in true Ian fashion, he’d taken it to heart while also finding a sneaky ass way to get back at Mickey. Apparently Ian's muse at the moment was Mickey's nipples.

Ian (9:18pm): usually your nipples are fucking hard whenever I let you fuck my face. So that’s probably what I wrote. That I was thinking about biting and licking each one until you moaned but my mouth was busy sucking you off. I musta mentioned how you fucking tasted cause that shit makes me wanna get on my knees for you. ALL DAY LONG!

“Mickey? Men’s medium, right?” Delilah’s voice interrupted his reading and he lifted guilty eyes to the assistant manager, who held out the yellow monstrosity for his inspection. He grabbed it with more force than necessary.

“Sure, guess,” he mumbled, feeling certain that his current state of horniness had to be obvious to anyone who even glanced at him. Running a thumbnail over his forehead, he looked at the door, planning his escape, and his goddamn phone pinged again. He was helpless to not read the message.

Ian (9:20pm): what else? I mean I dedicated like half a page to how good it makes me feel when you moan because my tongue is inside you, the way you leak while I’m rimming you. Jesus mick I hope you’re not in public when you read all these messages. I’m fucking rock hard writing them. I totally was when I wrote that shit in your sketchbook knowing you were asleep below me. You’re so fucking hot, like you should see yourself when you’re blissed out from me eating your ass.

“Fuck’s sake,” Mickey muttered, not even getting a chance to catch his breath before Ian’s next message arrived.

Ian (9:21pm): shit!! I remember writing that I was gonna jack off to the memory of tasting my come as it leaked--

“Okay everyone!”

Mickey nearly dropped his phone at Nelson’s outburst.

“I'm really looking forward to seeing us all show up in our new Polos!” Nelson announced with way too much fucking enthusiasm. “Go team!”

Mickey drew the line at participating in a round of applause. Instead, he was pretty sure he started to salivate when his phone pinged yet again.

“Does anyone have anything to add?”

“Nope! We’re good,” Mickey said, barely waiting for his boss to finish the question. He sent the rest of the team a silent threat daring them to ask another fucking question.

“Okay, great,” Nelson clicked his pen closed and tucked it into the holder alongside the clipboard. “Meeting adj--”

Mickey didn’t hear the end of that. He was out the lunchroom door and walking through the empty clothing store before the dust settled on their weekly team meeting. It was almost half past nine and he was looking forward to seeing an outside world that didn’t involve women’s apparel--other than the yellow shirt he stuffed into his jacket pocket.

Winding his way through the summer clearance, he returned his attention to their text conversation and Ian’s final message.

Ian (9:22pm): waiting on the bench outside Old Army in case you’re wondering. how’s the shirt situation?

Mickey nearly walked into a rack of discounted chino shorts, when he read that. Ian was in the building and his heart beat faster because that fucker had him trained like a goddamn pet chihuahua. That thought slowed his step and he ducked into the rows of skinny jeans.

Mickey (9:25pm): god ian you got me so worked up i’m in the change room. Couldn’t wait any longer to get my hand on my cock. Fuck it feels good. Looks fucking hot too man. Want a pic?

Grinning, Mickey slinked toward the store entrance, spotting Ian’s hair through the display window, and squinting to watch him read his phone from where he sat facing the store.

 _Ping_.

Ian (9:26pm): fuck ya

Ian looked up, eyes scanning the mall corridor and skimming over Old Army’s display window where Mickey was hovering behind Nelson’s mannequin girlfriend.

Flicking into his camera, Mickey held up both the phone and his middle finger, sending the message to the tease sitting on the bench out front. Ian glanced quickly at his phone, then smiled, fingers flying over the screen. When his phone buzzed, Mickey actually hesitated because the guy was too fucking good at this sneaky shit.

Ian (9:28pm): I’ve been in love with you since I was 15 mickey

“What the fuck?” Mickey muttered, blinking furiously and sucking on his cheek to get himself back under control because his reaction was goddamn embarrassing.

 _Ping_.

Ian (9:29pm): also I’ve been sitting here thinking about how fucking tight your ass is and whether you’ll let me handcuff you tonight while I open you up

Mickey stepped out from where he was hiding and Ian’s eyes widened in surprise then pleasure. Seeing him waiting on the bench for Mickey to finish his shift, Pinkberry container on the seat next to him, made Mickey plain old fucking happy. How this asshole ever got so fucking far under his skin remained a damn mystery.

They stared at each other for a few beats until Mickey hopped down from the display stand and exited the store, making sure the door was securely closed behind him. Ian sucked on the straw, eyes on Mickey’s arrival. His crutches rested on the side of the trash can and a knapsack sat next to the heavy walking boot protecting his broken leg.

“Hell are you doin’ here?”

“I was in the neighborhood.”

“Doin’ what?” Mickey stopped in front of Ian, knocking their knees together lightly and snagging the Pinkberry container out of his hand. The pina colada hit his tongue with an explosion. “Shit, that’s fucking good.”

“I’m bringing my man another sandwich since you wouldn't let me come earlier.” Ian patted the bench beside him and reached down for the zipper on his knapsack. “Plus I had to make a house call.”

The plastic wrapped sandwich appeared in the bag, sitting on top of the green jacket Mickey had altered earlier in the week. “That my stuff? From Barry’s place?”

Setting the ham sandwich on Mickey’s lap, Ian nodded. “That was my house call. Figured since he was so close to your work, I’d stop by for a chat.”

“Bet he was happy to see _you_ on his doorstep,” Mickey chuckled, setting the beverage on the seat next to him and unwrapping his sandwich. “Thanks, man.”

“Well, he didn’t have much choice. I caught him looking through the window, so I buzzed and buzzed until he gave in and came down.”

“How’s his face?”

With a touch of petulance, Ian muttered, “Not so fucking _cute_ anymore.”

Mickey bit into the sandwich to hide his chuckle. “Poor kid didn’t know what he was getting himself into.”

“Probably think twice before hooking up online ever again.”

“Met him here.”

Ian frowned. “Here, where?”

“The mall.”

“ _What?_ ”

Mickey stuffed half his sandwich into his mouth because he didn’t want to have this conversation, but Ian had that determined look, so he took a swig of the smoothie to wash the food down. “Yeah, in the food court. I was getting a Pinkberry.”

Ian grabbed the drink out of Mickey’s hand and tossed it in the trash bin, nearly knocking his crutches over in his haste.

“Fuck you do that for?”

Ian ignored his question and began pelting Mickey with his own questions. “So what? You just asked him out or something?”

“More or less.”

“While he ordered a fucking smoothie?”

“Noodles.”

Ian seemed to get more irate with each of Mickey’s responses and Mickey felt his own temper start to flare. At that moment, two of his co-workers exited into the mall, waving at him and giving Ian a thorough once over as they walked past.

“How’d you even know he was gay?” Ian demanded.

Mickey just rolled his eyes and Ian moved on.

“So let me get this straight, every time you’re pissed at me, you’re gonna ask a random dude on a fucking date?”

“Nah, just every time you leave me at the altar.”

“I didn’t leave you at the altar,” he snapped, getting the attention of the two Old Army employees who were loitering near the exit to the parking lot.

“Calm down, man.”

“NO.”

Mickey ground his teeth together in frustration, the half eaten sandwich forgotten. “What’s your fucking problem? I thought we’d moved past this.”

“I don’t fucking know,” Ian hissed, arms crossed like a five year old.

“You’re fucking jealous, that’s what your problem is.”

Ian just clamped his lips together, chin lifted in defiance.

“Maybe I got fucking game, Gallagher.” It was a shitty thing to say since Ian was freaking out over some sort of insecurity, but Mickey was tired and not really in the mood to coddle the guy. “Shit, you seem to think all I can do is mope around waiting for the asshole redhead who ruined me.”

“That’s not what I think.”

Mickey raised his eyebrows, tongue scraping along his lower lip. “ _You ever date anyone, Mickey? You ever love anyone else, Mickey?_ ” he mimicked.

“Fuck.” Ian deflated a little and Mickey softened. “You just never tell me anything, so I assume shit.”

“You want a fucking itinerary of my social life while we were split up, man?”

“No...yes...no, definitely no.” Ian finally looked at him. “What about that guy from Mexico?”

“What about ‘im?”

“Did you ask him out?” Ian frowned. “While he was buying fucking noodles.”

Mickey pictured Ty, always slightly fucked up on some drug or other, stumbling into Mickey’s bedroom by accident and Mickey not kicking him out. “No, it just sort of happened.”

“I’m sorry I assumed you didn’t have any experience other than me,” Ian said, lips tight with suppressed emotion. “And I’m glad you found other people to be with.”

Mickey laughed. “Yeah, you look fucking delighted.

Ian smiled a little in return. “I’m fucking jealous.”

“Yeah, man, I know the feeling.”

Narrowing his eyes, Ian looked thoughtful. “I should propose to you right now in the mall.”

“Don’t you fucking dare!” Mickey yelped, looking quickly at the entrance where his co-workers still hovered.

“I love you Mickey Milk--”

He socked Ian in the gut, aborting his fucking proposal. Laughingly holding his stomach, Ian punched him in the arm. “Fuck you. Always interrupting my proposals.”

“I am not saying yes in front of Old fucking Army,” he snapped.

“Fine,” Ian snickered. “I wasn’t really going to ask you here anyway. It’s just way too easy to tease you.”

“Bitch.” He pointed a finger at Ian’s face. “And I’m not going back to the fucking courthouse either, so get that shit right outta your head.”

Ian grabbed the finger, using it to pull Mickey closer. “We’ll go to plan B.”

“Which is what?”

Their faces were only a few inches apart and Mickey ignored the awareness crawling along his spine that they were still sitting in front of his workplace.

“I guess find someone to marry us...at a location.”

“So a... _wedding?”_

Ian released Mickey’s finger, shrugging. “Guess so.”

“Yeah, okay."

“Let’s go home.” Ian reached down to the knapsack, tucking the clothing back in so he could close the zipper. “I got an ass to eat and it’s getting late.”

They laughed together and Mickey let the long day go.

“So did Barry threaten to call the cops on you?”

“Initially, but I sweet-talked him.” He sat the knapsack in Mickey’s lap before grabbing his crutches.

“Yeah?”

“Might have mentioned that the last person who got my ass arrested regretted it.”

“Nice. Did you tell him about the nipple clamps?”

Ian smiled, pushing up to his feet carefully. “Ah, no.”

“Fuckin’ North Siders. ‘Fraid of a little nipple play.”

Laughing again, Ian clasped his long fingers around Mickey’s wrist, pulling him to his feet then pushing the material of his jacket up Mickey’s arm. He ran the pad of his thumb over the tattoo on his forearm.

“South Side trash forever, Ian.”

“Just the way I like my men.”

Mickey tossed the knapsack over his shoulder, while Ian adjusted his crutches under his arms. “Thanks for defending my fucking honor, by the way.”

Ian looked at him. “Did you hear all that shit Barry said?”

“Yeah.”

He could see the anger reigniting in Ian’s eyes. “Fuckin’ bullshit.”

“Nah,” Mickey said, nudging Ian toward the mall doors. “I was _not_ on my best behavior with the guy. To say the fucking least.”

“You didn’t turn on the charm?”

“Probably gonna get a shitty review on Yelp.”

“For the best,” Ian glanced at Mickey. “I would’ve had to kill him if he’d fallen in love with you.”

Mickey rubbed his shoulder against Ian’s. “There was never any danger of that happening.”

Ian stopped abruptly. “Oh! I peed in his Vespa. That’s why it wouldn’t start.”

“What?” Mickey started to laugh. “You’re such a petty bitch.”

“He’s lucky that’s all I did. I’m a goddamn arsonist, coulda blew up his fucking apartment building. ” He started hobbling toward the exit again. “Anyway, he wasn’t alone when I got there tonight.”

“Cole?”

“Yup, apparently he’s staying with Byron while he recuperates.”

They made eye contact and laughed. “Jesus, will the guy never learn?”

“I gotta send Cole a pair of Uggs as an apology for letting my guard dog off his leash.”

Mickey’s co-workers waved again as they passed through the doors into the setting sun. “Fuck are Uggs?”

“Boots, I think. And they can’t be knock offs. Maybe we can find some that have fallen off the back of a truck,” Ian suggested. “Jesus, Mickey, we’ve barely been out of prison for a month, and I decide to risk parole to assault the asshole.”

“Whatever,” Mickey shrugged indifferently. “I woulda just got myself locked up again.”

Ian stopped so abruptly Mickey nearly tripped over him. “No. Absolutely not. Promise me.”

Giving his nose a nudge, Mickey started across the empty parking lot.

“Mickey!”

Sliding a smoke from the packet, Mickey located his lighter and stopped to cup his hands around the flame as Ian caught up him. “I wanna be where you are too, Ian.”

Ian grabbed the lit smoke and inhaled deeply, then exhaled toward the sky. “How ‘bout we just stay the fuck out of prison?”

“That’s an idea too.” They grinned and continued walking toward the bus stop. “Also we need fucking wheels. Public transportation can eat my ass.”

“Since you're not a basic bitch, I’ll keep an eye on Craigslist for a little bike thingy,” Ian suggested, tugging the yellow Polo shirt from Mickey’s jacket pocket. “In... _dandelion_ yellow?”

“It’s fucking marigold, Ian. _Obviously_. And can I have my goddamn smoke back?” Yanking it out of Ian’s hand, he continued, “Anyway, we should go to Costco tomorrow after your doctor’s appointment.”

“My squirrel fund is almost non-existent.”

“Your squirrel fund is exactly the same size as mine, Ian,” Mickey said firmly because he was going to throttle the dumbass if they had to have _this_ conversation. “And we can get new sheets while we’re there in whatever style your royal ass wants.”

Ian gave him that assessing look. “You get paid recently?”

They'd arrived at the bus stop and Mickey dropped down to the bench. “You could say that.”

“Jesus, you just said we were gonna stay out of prison.”

“Do I look like I’m in prison?”

Ian sighed and joined him on the seat. “Do we have to fight over everything?”

“One of us does apparently.” Mickey knew it was time to change the subject. “Maybe they got those Ugg things at Costco.”

They made eye contact and let their differences go. For now.

**Gallagher House**

“Almost finished your bottle Freddie,” Ian yawned hugely then picked up his monologue again. “Time for your burping.”

“Ian, man, I’m trying to fucking sleep here. We don’t need a damn play by play. You’re not a commentator in the goddamn NHL.”

Shrugging, Ian glanced at Lip where he sprawled on the sofa, throw pillow pressed to his face.

“Freddieeeeee neeeeeds a burping,” Ian repeated, lifting Fred to his shoulder and patting his warm little back through the onesie.

Lip threw the pillow at him, narrowly missing his son’s head and Ian gave him a mock look of horror.

“Why you up, anyway? Isn’t loverboy lonely without you?” Lip teased.

“Me and Fred got a routine.”

Smiling a little, his brother locked his fingers behind his head. “So you figured shit out with Mick, huh?”

“Yes and no.”

“Indecisive as usual, I see.”

Fred let out a huge burp and Ian checked his t-shirt for remnants of it but it was clear. “I figured out that even though I’ll always be a fucking disaster, Mickey loves this fucking disaster and who am I stop him from getting his heart’s desire.”

He grinned at Lip, feeling a little smug because he might have worded it as joke but it was the fucking truth.

“Ah, so now you’re the heart’s desire of some South Side thug.”

“The truth has set me free.”

“Jesus, swollen head much, man?”

They laughed then fell into silence, and Ian wondered if Lip had fallen asleep. “Actually, I’m down here tonight cause I keep having a dream.”

Lip’s eyes opened. “I hope you aren’t gonna tell me it’s a wet one.”

“Nah, my wet dream is sleeping upstairs in my bed.”

“Nope, that’s just too fucking far, Ian,” he groaned then his face got serious. “Okay, so I’m gonna guess it’s more of a nightmare than a dream.”

“Yeah, I mean there’s no vampires or anything but I’m trapped in this room. Sometimes Mick is there, sometimes not.” Fred had fallen asleep and Ian cradled his head, running his thumb over his soft hair. “It’s the backroom...of one of the clubs.”

“Ah,” Lip nodded, patting his chest then obviously remembering that he was in his pajamas and didn’t have his cigarettes.

“I think it’s because of something that happened that I’ve never, you know...dealt with.”

“Just one thing?” Lip asked carefully.

Ian released the breath he had started to hold, reminding himself of the breathing techniques he’d learned. “Well, there’s probably lots of shit I could deal with from that time, but this is sorta the one I can’t get outta my head.”

Lip waited but Ian suddenly clammed up, wondering why the fuck he was bringing this up. Every time he started to share something, he immediately felt regret and wished he'd kept his mouth shut.

“Gonna have to tell me now, Ian.”

Knowing he was right and that it needed out of his head, Ian blurted it quickly. “Back when I was living at Mick’s, we needed fucking money so I starred in a porno.”

Lip didn’t move, didn’t speak, and Ian started to panic, like maybe this was actually as bad as he suspected it was.

“ _Starred?_ ” Lip asked, smile forming on the edges of his lips. “The famous Ian Gallagher making his debut on the gay porn stage.”

Ian grabbed the throw pillow and lobbed it at his brother’s dumb head. “Shut up,” he laughed. “Yeah, _starred_. I make men scream with ecstasy, I’ll have you know!”

“Shit, man, we all know that. We’re thinking of investing in noise cancelling earmuffs for the family.”

“Oh, that’s a good idea,” Ian agreed. “We’re gonna be newlyweds soon, so things are really gonna heat up.”

“Have a fucking kid and you won’t have to worry about that shit anymore,” Lip complained.

“Seems like a fair trade off.”

“Tell it to my balls,” Lip laughed. “Since you're an expert in that area.”

“We all have our specialty.”

Lip stopped smiling and nodded. “I really fucking let you down a few times, Ian.”

“What? How’d this come around to you so soon?” Ian teased.

“Nah, man, I’m serious. I’m sure you don’t want to discuss a whole bunch of shit from the past, but sometimes I think about Kash and everything that went down when you were a kid and it looks so fucking different to me at 25 than it did at 15.”

Ian rubbed a hand down Fred’s back, holding him close because it felt like he might be able to cleanse himself just by holding and loving this baby.

“And being a dad is like a fucking wake up call, Ian. Any man lays a fucking hand on him before he’s fully mature and I’ll fucking kill him.”

Swallowing harshly, Ian nodded. “Yeah, I’ll fucking help you.”

\------

Scrubbing a hand over his face as he yawned, Ian moved carefully down the stairs to the kitchen. He’d been given the okay to start putting weight on his injured leg as long as he took it easy for another week. It felt fucking liberating to not have the crutches.

Mickey and Carl were at the kitchen counter preparing breakfast. His brother waited by the toaster, flipping a butter knife from hand to hand, while Mickey poured milk into his cereal bowl. Following the line of his body from the disheveled dark hair to the swell of his ass, Ian almost tripped down the last three steps.

“Who’s sweatpants are you wearing?” he asked, making it to the bottom step without hurting himself despite the sudden flood of desire to his groin. He felt his nostrils flare and his chin dip as his eyes stalked Mickey, who glanced down at his lower body to check out his clothing.

“Dunno. Everything was dirty and these were in the laundry basket upstairs.”

“Mine,” Carl offered as Ian arrived in the space directly behind Mickey where he leaned heavily on the countertop, forearms braced around his bowl of corn flakes.

Ian didn't doubt the sweats belonged to his little brother since they fit Mickey like a second skin, accentuating everything. The meaty thighs, the rounded ass. As Ian also discovered when he slipped a hand around to the front of Mickey’s body, the material molded to his dick.

Mickey grunted between mouthfuls of cereal, and Ian pressed himself all along his back from neck to thighs, hand cupping the slowly awakening cock.

“I wanna go down on you,” Ian moaned quietly into the warm skin of his neck, imagining the familiar feel of him inside Ian’s mouth.

“Not here I hope,” Carl said at the same time as his Pop Tarts shot out of the toaster. “Little brother in the room.”

Mickey turned slightly to glare at Carl, the movement rubbing his ass against Ian’s erection. “Do you mind, shithead.”

“I was here first,” Carl countered.

Barely aware that Carl had spoken, Ian ran his other hand under Mickey’s tank top, digging his fingers into the flesh of his stomach so he could trap him against his body and work his nose into the warm skin of his neck. It reminded him of youth and home and safety and _need_ , of soft morning kisses in their bed and desperate teenage sex.

“Upstairs,” Ian demanded.

When Mickey finally dropped his spoon into his cereal bowl, Ian used the arm around his waist to tug him toward the stairs, but Mickey decided to turn in his arms and their feet knocked together awkwardly. A bowl of apples tipped onto the floor when Ian reached out a hand to balance them.

Ignoring the mess they’d made, they kissed hungrily. Mickey wrapped an arm around Ian’s neck, putting a little too much weight on his bad leg and they stumbled again, this time hitting the dirty clothes hamper and tipping over a pile of baby clothes before banging into the wall next to the stairway.

“Jesus, I’ll leave you two alone,” Carl said, stuffing a Pop Tart between his teeth, so he could grab his backpack and slam the back door behind himself.

“The house is empty,” Ian moaned, stepping away so he could tug Mickey forward then push him down to the stairs where he could hover above. “Means I can blow you right here.”

Before Mickey could do more than groan, Ian yanked the too small sweatpants over his ass. He wasn’t wearing underwear, so the material moved smoothly exposing his erection and making Ian growl deep in his throat.

He pressed a palm flat against the tank material covering Mickey’s chest, keeping him pinned to the steps. Satisfied that Mickey wasn’t going anywhere, Ian headed straight for his dick, licking up the length of it. Savoring the smooth, hot skin before closing his lips around the end and sucking it into his mouth. He didn’t stop until it hit the back of his throat then he paused, letting his tongue explore while he waited for Mickey to respond.

It didn’t take long for Mickey’s hips to shift away, pulling his dick slowly out of Ian’s mouth then slowly sliding back in, while Ian continued to work his tongue. They played that game until he felt a firm hand on the back of his head at the same time as the speed of Mickey’s thrusts increased.

Ian wouldn’t have noticed if the entire Gallagher clan returned home, since his senses were overpowered by all things Mickey. His smell, his taste, the sounds of his breathing. Giving head was definitely one of his favorite things, but it nearly drove him crazy when it was this man on the receiving end.

When Mickey pushed up to his elbows so he could half-assed curl around Ian’s head, Ian opened his eyes to glance up at Mickey while squeezing his balls through the climax. Eventually, he pulled off, swiping the back of his hand over his lips and giving Mickey a heated look.

“What was that about?” Mickey asked. “Not that I’m complaining.”

Ian shrugged, yanking the sweatpants back over his hips because Mickey appeared to be on the verge of a nap.

“Can I return the favor?” Mickey asked with a yawn.

“Nope,” Ian smiled down at his sleepy face. “I wanna be low key horny for you all day.”

\------

Mickey nearly jumped out of his skin when his head emerged from the refrigerator to discover Kev leaning against the island in the dim kitchen, old housecoat over his Kevin Ball’s Keg Zone t-shirt. It looked cozy so he made a mental note to pick up a housecoat next time he was at the mall.

“Hey Mick.”

“Fuck are you doing here?” he asked, tossing the package of ham and the mustard on the counter between them. “It’s almost midnight.”

“Vee sent me with this.”

He set a container of MotherLove nipple cream next to the mustard and Mickey recoiled, sliding the mustard a little to the left. “What the fuck for?”

“Lip said Tami is chafing from--”

“Jesus, I get it, man.”

Pretending this conversation never happened, Mickey slapped some slices of bread onto the cutting board. “Want a sandwich?” he asked, eyebrows lifted in question.

“Yeah, sure.”

He added two more slices and squirted mustard on the six slices, while Kev sank tiredly into the chair.

“Late night feeding just like the baby, huh?” Kev laughed, stuffing a piece of ham into his mouth when Mickey dumped out the package.

“Ian is the baby in this scenario.” That made Mickey laugh too.

“You’re making him a sandwich?”

“Sure. Leg’s bothering him and...he was hungry.”

Kev nodded, slowly, giving Mickey a look that made him squirm a little. “You’re living the dream.”

“It’s just a fucking ham sandwich, Kev.”

“Nah, I mean the whole gay thing.”

Mickey shot him a look. “Oh yeah, it’s been a fucking cake walk.”

“Well, women aren’t a cake walk either.”

“You win. I’m definitely living the dream.” He grabbed three plates and passed Kev his sandwich. Stuffing half a piece into his mouth, he nodded his thanks at Mickey and they ate in silence for a few minutes.

“How’d it go today?” Mickey asked, returning items to the fridge.

“Gonna need you to stop by the gym tomorrow if you got time.”

“Sure. Got another runner?”

“Yup, pussied out today. Need back-up for his next appointment.”

“Sounds fun,” Mickey agreed. “My day off so that’s cool.”

Kev wiped a hand over his mouth. “Like old times, huh?”

“Mm,” Mickey agreed. “Only less pussy this time.”

“Damn shame.”

The stairs creaked and they both looked in the direction of the noise.

“Mick?” Ian’s voice floated down to them. “I thought my offer to blow you would get you back up here quicker.”

He appeared in the low light of the kitchen, naked except for his checked boxers. Raking a hand through his hair, he smiled at Kev as he walked toward them.

“Hey Kev,” he said, picking up half a sandwich and biting into it.

“Living the fucking dream,” Kev sighed.

\------

Turning away from the bathroom mirror, Mickey stuffed the set of handcuffs into the back pocket of his jeans. He heard the door slam and Ian say hello to Carl followed by the now familiar thump of his walking boot on the back stairs.

“Mick?”

He stepped out of the bathroom and into the hallway, waiting for Ian to reach the top of the stairs and spot him. The sound of his boot gave away his progress, and Mickey smoothed his hands down the material of his t-shirt just as Ian arrived.

“I was think--” Ian stopped moving when his eyes landed on Mickey. “What the fuck? Where the hell’d you get that?”

Mickey smiled down at the t-shirt he was wearing, grin increasing every time he saw the graphics imprinted on the white material. He thought he’d won the jackpot after Franny asked him to go with her into the bowels of the Gallagher house to look for Debbie’s old dollhouse. “Basement.”

“Take it off,” Ian demanded.

“But I like it,” Mickey countered, stepping back, tongue challenging Ian to retaliate. “Church of Gay Jesus. Heard good things about it.”

“ _Mickey_ ,” Ian said, dragging it out as a warning and taking two steps forward. They were now facing off, eyes narrowed and watchful, half the length of the hallway between them.

“The wiener really sells it, don’t ya think?”

That got Ian moving but Mickey stood his ground until Ian was almost close enough to touch him, then he spun around, taking the stairs three at a time. When he reached the bottom, he turned back to see how close Ian was--after all the guy had an injury so Mickey could at least give him the handicap.

_Thump. Thump._

Mickey’s shit-eating grin dipped a little when Ian suddenly appeared, way faster than he’d thought possible. Instinct kicked in and he stepped backwards, but the sofa was there and he tipped over the back, landing with a slight bounce on the cushions. Before he could roll off and to his feet, Ian threw himself over the edge of the sofa too.

“You gonna make me take it off you?” Ian hissed, landing on Mickey hard enough to wind him.

Spreading his thighs just a little, he sucked in a ragged breath. “H-hope...fully.”

“Okay, you asked for it, brat.” Ian grinned a little as he tugged at the hem.

“Do you guys mind? I’m trying to watch _Nailed It_.”

Mickey tipped his head enough to glare up at Carl, who was squeezed into the corner of the sofa. “Not anymore, shithead.”

“You guys got your own room!”

“Piss off.”

Throwing the remote control onto the coffee table, Carl stormed up stairs, louder even than Ian with his broken leg. It made Ian’s grin increase and Mickey felt that happy smile all the way to his soul. “You gonna teach me a lesson or are you all talk, Gallagher?”

“Yeah, I am.” But Ian’s attention had shifted to the t-shirt and the smile faded slowly.

“Hey,” Mickey said quietly, placing his palm on Ian’s face to force his attention back to Mickey. “I’m just giving you shit about the whole Gay Jesus thing so it’s not such a touchy subject.”

Ian shrugged but tore his gaze away from the ridiculous logo of a smiling hot dog that Frank had printed to profit off his son’s mental illness and insecurities.

“I kinda like the idea of it on you.” He nodded. “Well, not this one, obviously, but the one the supporters had made.”

“Cause it’s got your face on it,” Mickey teased, thumb rubbing over Ian’s cheek. “I like this face, man.”

Sometimes, Mickey could absorb Ian’s love into every atom in his body, and it made him feel alive in a way nothing else ever fucking came close to. Their lips met softly, fitting together in that familiar yet gut clenching way that he could only describe as passionate.

“But I’m still gonna make you pay for this,” Ian threatened.

“I need punished.” He lifted his ass off the sofa cushion just enough to get the set of handcuffs out of his back pocket then his arms landed above his head. When Ian's attention slid over Mickey's face and up to his hands, Mickey snicked one of the cuffs closed around his wrist. “Oops, look what I’ve done, Ian.”

  
[by Steorie](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/steorie)

\------

Ian loaded his toothbrush with Crest whitening toothpaste. While wondering if the shit really worked, he bent over the sink, scrubbing quickly at his teeth. The bathroom door swung open and Mickey stormed inside. The toothbrush paused in Ian’s mouth when he caught sight of Mickey’s face. Something had obviously happened because his features were tight with anger, his blue eyes stormy.

Before he could ask what was up, Mickey’s hand shot out to Ian’s crotch, cupping it swiftly then reaching up for the back of Ian’s head. He pulled their mouths together, oblivious to the foamy toothpaste as his tongue aggressively demanded entrance and his body pressed firmly against Ian’s. Down for whatever this was, Ian grabbed a handful of Mickey’s ass.

Before the kiss could get any heavier, Mickey stepped back, dropping his hands to Ian’s belt and tugging roughly. He had it unhooked and the zipper down before Ian even got his hands on Mickey’s belt. Whatever was on Mickey’s mind had a desperation to it that Ian was trying to identify while his pants were tugged down his legs. Mickey was bending over the sink.

“Are you fucking serious?” Carl moaned.

“Shut the fucking door, shithead.”

The door crashed into the jam and Mickey pushed his pants over his ass since Ian was clearly not fast enough. Wanting a little more friction, Ian pulled his shirt off then shoved a hand down the back of Mickey’s boxers, middle finger finding his hole.

“Lube,” Ian reminded them.

Mickey reached a hand out to the shelves above the toilet, knocking over a couple sticks of deodorant as he grabbed the Vaseline. Ian accepted it but managed to re-emerge from the sexual haze enough to question what the hell they were doing.

“Uh, we got actual lube, like, ten steps away in the bedroom, Mick.”

“Fuck’s sake,” Mickey cursed, meeting Ian’s eyes in the mirror. They froze in this position while the anger just under the surface erupted and Mickey’s fist connected savagely with the glass.

“Holy fuck,” Ian yelped. “What the hell?”

He stepped back, so he could turn Mickey to face him. Taking his hand between both of his, Ian examined the knuckle of his middle finger. The skin was red but not broken, nor was the mirror, which seemed like a small miracle.

“What happened?”

Breathing heavily, Mickey yanked his hand free and swiped the reddened knuckle over his bottom lip. Ian grasped the ledge of the sink with both hands, trapping Mickey between his arms, so he’d know they weren’t leaving until he got an explanation.

“Fucking Terry happened, okay? What else is fucking new?”

Ian relaxed his grip on the sink and pulled Mickey into his arms, determined to fucking hug him even if he fought it. He was stiff at first, arms at his sides as whatever the psychotic prick had done still fucked with Mickey’s emotions. But a few minutes of Ian’s quiet breathing and firm hold relaxed him enough that he leaned into it, face nuzzling into Ian’s shoulder.

“Sandy texted me,” he mumbled. “The old bastard’s back in town and he found out we were at the courthouse.”

“How?”

He pulled away from Ian slightly. “Probably Colin. I spent the first night away on the couch at the house. Pretty blitzed. Looks like I was bitchin’ about you.”

Fuck. “And?”

“And I assume my old man plans to kill me, Ian.”

“Do you think he really would?” Ian knew firsthand how fucked up the guy was, but would he _actually_ try to kill Mickey or just bluster and threaten?

“Sure, why not?”

“Cause...you’re his kid?” Ian chewed his lip in doubt. “Well, also cause he’d go to jail.”

Their eyes met.

“Yeah, okay,” Ian conceded. “Those things wouldn’t stop him.”

“Nope. The only thing that might ever stop him is money.”

“Really?”

Mickey shrugged. “Probably. Enough cash and he’d disown me.”

“I’ll rob a bank then.” That got a slight smile. “Then I’ll shoot him.”

Burying a hand in Ian’s navy blue undershirt, Mickey twisted and tugged him close. “Promise, fucking promise, me you won’t go near him, Ian.”

When Ian wasn’t quick enough, his fingers tightened the material until it nearly choked Ian. “Okay! I promise.”

“Good.” He released the material. “We gonna bang?”

“If you promise to be fucking smart about this. Like don’t go near him without a gun, even if it violates parole.” As usual, they were in a no-win situation. “Shit.”

Mickey tapped his cheek once, leaving a slight sting on the skin. “Course. Can we get busy before I have to go to work? Not gonna make it through another team meeting unless you rail me, man.”

Laughing, Ian shoved him toward the door as they attempted to fix their pants. “Sure but in our damn bedroom with actual lube.”

“Okay, princess.”

Ian smacked Mickey’s ass after opening the bathroom door. “Fuck you, Mick. You’re the one who had a hissy fit over a little mayo in his ass.”

“Seriously?” Carl moaned, stepping back into his bedroom and slamming the door.

**Kash ‘n Grab**

“I was thinking of getting the new fiberglass cast in black,” Ian explained. “That’d be cool, huh?”

“Yeah, cool. “ Mickey opened the door to the Kash ‘n Grab, holding it open for both of them to enter. “You’ll look real badass hobbling around with a black cast.”

“I’m glad you agree.”

They fell silent then. It had been years since they had stood together in the store, and despite their efforts to act like it was no big deal, Ian was feeling it. The store looked mostly the same. Shelves of food, signs advertising the latest sales, wall of cooler doors. Nothing about it had really changed, except the cash register was now a scanning system that brought the store into the 21st century. The girl behind the till, however, had the same bored expression that Ian had worn for two years of his life.

“I’ll grab the beer?” Mickey said, heading to the back of the store.

Ian followed slowly since he was still getting used to walking long distances without crutches and feeling confident about putting all his weight on the walking boot. “And we need snacks,” he called out.

Mickey looked over his shoulder. “From this shithole?”

“Better than nothing.” He gave the clerk a small smile, but she didn’t appear to disagree with Mickey’s assessment, so he followed him down the furthest aisle, where several brands of beer were on display.

Mickey stood in front of one of the coolers, examining the options. “Preference?”

“Nah,” Ian shrugged, not really caring since he could only have one anyway. “Actually, yes, get something good since this is a date.”

Giving Ian a questioning look, he reached for six glass bottles of Heineken then hesitated, fingers moving to the Stella Artois then hesitating again. “You call wandering the neighborhood all night a date, huh?” he asked while moving to a new cooler. “Then I guess you were wrong about us never going on a date.”

"We've still never gone on a _real_ date. One damn day we'll actually go on one of those," Ian pouted, leaning a shoulder against the cooler and watching Mickey stare at the selection.

An overwhelming feeling of nostalgia hit him then and with it came a wave of loss. They had been through so much together, and way too many of those memories were linked to this neighborhood, and especially this store.

Watching Mickey return to the Heineken cooler, Ian imagined 16 year old Mickey with his dirty jacket, spiked hair and perpetual scowl standing in this exact spot, planning what he was going to steal next and grouchily responding to Ian’s inquiries.

_“Whatcha doin’ here, Mickey?”_

_“Need some fucking beer, whatdaya think?”_

_“That all you need?”_

_“Course, bitch.”_

Smiling over how little Mickey had changed in some ways, Ian prompted him.  
“What do you need, Mickey?”

“Beer.”

“That all you need?”

Mickey gave him a quick look, frown lines starting to form on his forehead. “I guess some fucking Slim Jims. Starving.”

Ian shoved a hand into the cooler door, closing it slowly.

“Can I help you?” Mickey snapped, trying to reopen the door.

“Mick…”

“Ian?”

“I was just thinking about these coolers.”

“What about-- _ohhh_. Yeah.” He nodded in agreement. “You wanna sneak back there and reminisce or something?”

Ian slid his body between the cooler and Mickey, getting his full attention. “Did you ever think of me as your boyfriend back then?”

“Fuck, I don’t know, Ian. I doubt I was capable of that,” he said quietly. “But I definitely fucking thought about you.”

Ian grinned. “When?” He was not moving from this spot until he got some more information.

“Obviously when I was jacking off, but also when I was... _breathing_.”

“Shut up,” Ian snorted, then frowned. “For _real?_ ”

“You mind if I get my fucking beer?”

Ian ran his palm down Mickey’s chest until he found the tab on his jacket, tugging it up nearly to his chin. “You might get cold on our walk.”

“I should be good now.”

“Yup, let me get that door for you.” He gave the cooler handle a yank and a wave of cold air hit his face. Mickey waved him out of his way so he could view the selection again.

“Stop standing around and get some snacks.”

“I’m sure they got Slim Jims in this shithole.” When Mickey smiled at him, Ian headed toward the front counter, giving him a flirty look over his shoulder. “Bet they got some Big Red too.”

“Fuck you is what they got,” Mickey yelled after him as the cooler door banged shut.

“Excuse me,” Ian said to the girl behind the counter. “Do you have any Big Red gum?”

“Sure, second row.” She pointed at the aisle directly across from the till.

“Great.”

He moved down the aisle, pretending to search in earnest, while waiting for Mickey to reach the front counter. The small box of gum was wedged between the strawberry Hubba Bubba and a fancy new flavor of Tic Tac gum. He freed one from the box and returned to the till.

“You think you’re gonna win this, man?”

Ian tapped the pack of gum against Mickey’s chin before dropping it to the counter next to the six pack of Heineken. “I know I will, Mick, and the truth will set you free.”

Snorting, Mickey selected three different types of jerky from the Slim Jim display. “Nothing to tell.”

“Uh huh,” Ian hummed, ignoring the blatant interest on the cashier’s face. “You loved me _waaaaaaay_ before we banged.”

“Sure,” Mickey agreed, flipping through the assorted bills he’d pulled from the pocket of his jeans. “If that’s what gets you through the night.”

“You know exactly what gets me through the night.” He tore open the gum wrapper as soon as it was scanned, extracting a stick and stuffing the wrapper into the pocket of Mickey’s jacket. Slowly and deliberately, he slid the stick of gum into his mouth. “ _Mmmmmmm_.”

Massaging his lower lip with the tip of his tongue, Mickey gave Ian a look then tossed a twenty dollar bill on the countertop.

[by Steorie](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/steorie)

“Wanna hold my hand?” Ian asked, palm held out between them as they walked the streets of their neighborhood. Mickey frowned at the hand. “If we’re gonna be married, I think we can hold hands outside of the bedroom, for Pete's sake.”

“Fine.” He transferred the bag of snacks and beer to his left hand and firmly grasped Ian’s fingers. “Happy?”

“You’ll never know how much.”

Mickey snorted but Ian refused to engage and focused instead on his surroundings. The night was surprisingly warm for late September, which was perfect since his eventual plan was to get Mickey naked under the stars.

They passed through the fence into the school football field, making their way toward the bleachers. Instead of detouring under them, Ian led them to the top row of seats and slid along the bench, waiting for Mickey to join him.

“Beer me,” he said, hand extended.

“God, you’re a dork.”

“Do you find me un _beer_ able?”

Shaking his head, Mickey beered Ian, even popping the cap for him before passing it over. They clinked once then sipped quietly, looking out across the field. Ian leaned into Mickey’s shoulder as they passed a smoke between them.

“All this wide open space is making me think of our cell.”

Releasing a belch, Mickey gave him a look. “Miss it?”

“Oh yeah, especially your toenail clippings.”

“Figured you miss those.”

Ian turned slightly so he could face Mickey. “I was thinking,” he began and Mickey belched again deliberately. “Maybe you should get your GED.”

“Nope.”

“But you could--”

“Nope.”

“Mickey, you’re--”

“Nope.”

Ian all but stomped his foot in frustration. “Why are you so unreasonable?”

“Cause you’re so fucking pushy.”

“I am not!” Ian frowned at Mickey’s disbelieving look. “Not that much...well, _whatever_ , I wouldn’t be if you’d just fucking listen to me.”

Mickey tried to hide his grin behind the beer bottle, but this was so fucking funny that he couldn’t contain it. “So are you admitting you're a pushy fucker?”

“I’ll admit it,” he said slyly, “if you agree to get your GED.”

“Come on, Gallagher,” Mickey stood up, tossing his beer bottle behind the bleachers much to Ian’s dismay. “Where we headed next on this not really a date, _date_?”

“This isn’t over,” Ian threatened, but he stood up too.

While Mickey munched on a teriyaki Slim Jim, Ian led them out of the school yard and east toward 43rd. They passed by the brick sided high school, giving the building their full attention.

“Guess you were wrong, Mick.”

“Doubtful.”

“You were wrong about your death threat, the one you spray painted on the side of the school. Ian Gallagher--”

“Is a deadman,” Mickey chuckled.

“So I guess you never followed through,” Ian decided, “cause you were secretly in love with me the whole time.”

“Keep that up, and the prophecy could still come true.”

Ian laughed, almost giddily over the fact that they were actually doing this. Visiting their own haunts, teasing each other over shit they’d done as kids, reliving some of the best moments of their relationship.

He grabbed Mickey’s hand again. “This is definitely an almost date.”

  


[by Steorie](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/steorie)

Eventually, Ian’s destination came into view, the block of graffiti covered concrete buildings. Only half the street lights were still working in this part of the neighborhood, but the moon was full and illuminated the abandoned lot. The place looked exactly the same as it had when they’d hung out here back in the day. The broken piece of chain link fence still offered any passerby easy access, and the big empty space in the center of the crumbling structures was still overrun with weeds.

Ian had to bend awkwardly to get through the fence without catching his jacket on the broken wires, which put extra pressure on his injured leg. “Fuck,” he hissed but waved off Mickey’s concern. “I’m fine. Feels like a hundred years ago we were here hanging out.”

“Wonder if my targets are still set up.”

“Half the time I was your fucking target.”

Snickering, they made their way through the courtyard, over the knee high patches of weeds and broken concrete. Ian glanced at Mickey, remembering making this walk and how he’d always watch Mickey closely, gauging his comfort level and acceptance of what was happening between them then trying so fucking hard to reign in his own needs.

But he always ended up doing a shit job of it. He’d never wanted anything quite so obsessively as he’d wanted Mickey Milkovich to want him. He’d wanted to be an officer, he wanted to be an EMT. Hell, he’d wanted his sanity back, but nothing ever consumed him quite like unrequited love. Because he’d fucking _known_ from nearly the beginning, and probably only subconsciously, that if he could get Mickey to love him, then he’d never really need anyone else. This guy was so fucking intense, so fearless, so passionate in everything he did, that Ian had needed to be the center of it.

Inhaling another wave of acute nostalgia, Ian said almost more to himself than Mickey, “I came here a couple of times right after you got locked up. When things got...hard. One night, I was on this bridge, looking at--”

Realizing that he literally was talking to himself, Ian looked around for Mickey, who stood a few feet behind Ian, amid the weeds and cracked dirt, attention on the space in front of him. Their bag of beer and snacks lay at his feet. When his thumb came up to his mouth, teeth biting into the already mutilated cuticle, Ian moved toward him.

“Mick?” he said cautiously, but got no response. “Hey.”

“Jesus Christ,” Mickey breathed, his voice tight in a way Ian had last heard at the courthouse. It was that soul draining heartache of constantly being reminded that life sucked.

“Mickey--”

“Fuck,” he bit out, refusing to look at Ian when he stepped in front of him.

“What’s wrong?” Ian asked, bracing at the last second for the impact of Mickey’s palms against his chest. It wasn’t violent but it was hard enough that Ian stumbled back a little. “Mickey?”

“Just... _fuck_ , Ian.” He held a palm up, and Ian stepped backwards. “Gimme a fucking second.”

His breathing was harsh, jagged, nostrils flaring with each exhale, but Ian kept his distance. He waited while Mickey paced away and back once, while he continued to curse, while he scraped his palms down his face.

“What’s going on?” Ian whispered. “Talk to me, please.”

He tried again to touch Mickey, stepping forward so his fingers could brush over his bicep, but he tensed up, shying away slightly and Ian dropped his hand to his side. “Okay...okay.”

Mickey’s sad fucking eyes landed on him, the blue centers bright and shiny. Nothing made Ian feel worse than seeing his pain because he tried so hard to suppress it, probably believing he needed to always be strong and vigilant.

“I’m here,” Ian said quietly. “And I’m never gonna leave you again, okay?”

“Jesus,” Mickey hissed, bending at the waist to press his palms into his thighs and breathing deeply. When he finally stood up, he swiped at his face again, fingers pressing into the perfect line of nose then along the fullness of his lower lip.

Ian tried to figure out what had triggered this panic attack. They’d been laughing and teasing as they approached the abandoned buildings. Ian had blown Big Red bubbles into Mickey’s face, daring him to admit that he’d toyed with Ian repeatedly in order to get him to notice Mickey as something more than the neighborhood bully.

Now he was nearly hyperventilating and that knowledge finally snapped Ian out of it, and his training kicked in. He took a long, deep breath making sure that Mickey could hear it. In and out. In and out. Slow, deep, exaggerated, moving closer with each exhale, until they were face to face, breath in sync whether Mickey realized it or not.

“You need to talk to me and get out of your head.”

Mickey reached a hand up to the side of Ian's face, frowning as his palm caressed his skin almost tenderly.

“Course I love you and I’m gay,” Mickey whispered. "But..."

Watching Mickey closely, Ian recalled how he had once been desperate to hear those words, but nothing about the way Mickey said them now sounded freeing. He sounded defeated.

“But...Terry wants me dead ‘cause of that. He wanted me dead then and he probably wants you dead too.” He continued to breathe, each intake longer than the last, and Ian kept pace with him. “Why does he care if you’re a fucking guy? What fucking difference does it make?”

His chin tightened in anger, more tears gathering, and his hand dropped from Ian's face to hang at his side.

“Why’d he do _that_...to me?”

Unable to answer that question, Ian wrapped a hand around his waist and pulled him against his body, holding tight like he’d wanted to do back then. So fucking badly that he’d ended up alienating Mickey when he needed Ian most.

All these years and they’d never talked about it. No once. Ever. They’d never discussed how it might have shaped their lives or what kind of trauma it might have left behind. Ian knew it was the one thing that had derailed their future the most, even in some ways more than his illness.

And they’d never put it into words, not since they’d last stood here. Not since Ian had demanded to be heard and Mickey had refused, physically putting a halt to their fledgling relationship.

Years later, Ian had tried once, with Caleb, to mention it, to pull it from the spot where he stored all those traumatic memories to see what it looked like in the light of day. To see what kind of reaction he’d get. But the second he’d said it, he’d regretted it. He’d wanted to take it back, pretend it had never been said. It belonged to him and Mickey, and he had long since resigned himself to the fact that they would never talk about it because they didn’t know how to acknowledge what had happened nor how a father could hurt his child that way.

Yet, here they were standing among their memories, and Ian was terrified he’d fuck it up, say the wrong thing, turn it toward what he needed, so he just ran his thumb slowly under Mickey’s eye where wetness had gathered.

“I’m sorry,” Mickey whispered, eyes locked on Ian’s. “That you had to be there.”

Ian shook his head slowly. “I’m not. I would never want you to go through that alone, Mickey.”

“It’s so fucked up. Christ, I wanna hate his fucking guts.”

When Mickey’s jaw tightened like he was working hard to keep himself in check, it reminded Ian of the tears he’d released with a stranger because he didn’t have Mickey’s comfort until much later.

“Maybe you could, ya know...” he hesitated unsure what words would be the least likely to spook Mickey. “Let it out?”

“Fuck that.” He gave Ian an annoyed look but moisture gathered on his lower lids anyway. “I don’t fuckin’ wanna.”

“Okay.” Ian tipped his head forward, resting it lightly against Mickey’s. “Okay.”

After a quiet moment, Mickey whispered, “Are you okay? With...what happened?”

Ian honestly had no idea. He felt certain that the events of that day had left a scar because how could they not? He’d been fucking terrified that it was the end, that Terry Milkovich was going to kill both of them. Watching blood run down Mickey’s cheek, watching him unconscious on the sofa while his father made a sick fucking phone call. Feeling useless...and kind of responsible.

But that was a long time ago. Even though Terry hadn’t changed, Mickey had. He was older, freer, open enough to try to talk about it, to try to deal with it.

“I’m okay now because we’re together, and we’re not fucking kids at his mercy.” He searched Mickey’s face. “Are you okay?”

“ _No_.” It came out in an exasperated huff. “I’m fucking worried, Ian. He’s gonna try to stop me...us...from getting married.”

“Nothing’s gonna stop me from marrying you, Mickey.”

Hearing himself say those words out loud reinforced his determination, and he decided to make it official right now, not wait for the romantic moment he’d planned.

Feeling around in the pocket of his jeans, he pulled out the smaller of the two rings then lowered awkwardly to his good knee. Mickey looked down at him, face surprised but not distressed, so Ian grasped his left hand, running his thumb over the cool skin of his knuckle before kissing it once, quickly.

“I love you, Mickey Milkovich,” he began, watching his face to make sure he was still okay. “More than fucking anything.”

When Mickey’s free hand smoothed over Ian’s hair, he took it as a sign that the timing was right.

“And if you’ll let me, I’d like to spend my life proving it to you. I want to make you happy, to see you smile and know you feel safe. I want a home with you. I want to bicker with you and annoy you every single day. Then I want to share a bed with you every single night. I want an entire lifetime with you. Will you marry me... _officially_?”

Mickey nodded, releasing a long breath as Ian slipped the ring onto his finger. It was a tiny bit loose but close enough and, to Ian, it looked perfect. A symbol of their love and commitment set against his crudely inked tattoos.

“What about yours?” Mickey asked, dropping down to his knees and holding out his hand, waiting for Ian to lay the silver band in the center of his palm.

“Ian Gallagher,” he said firmly, blue eyes intense and focused. “I love you, _obviously_ more than anything--” they smiled at each other “-- _and_ I robbed the Kash ‘n Grab in order to get your attention. Every pack of Big Red I stole was me leaving my fucking call card.”

Unable to contain himself, Ian hooted in delight, but he’d save his actual gloating for after the proposal not during.

“Dumbass,” Mickey muttered. “I knew even then that you were important. Scared the shit outta me but I like a fucking challenge.”

He slid the ring on Ian’s finger and shrugged helplessly. “The only thing I ever really wanted was to spend my life with you.”

Their lips finally met, a soft chaste press. “Course, I’ll marry you,” they said simultaneously. 

Ian added one kiss to his forehead then groaned. “I have to stand up. My fucking knee is killing me.”

Mickey stood, taking both of Ian’s hands in his and tugged. “ _Oof_ ,” Ian grunted as his legs tried to function properly. “Okay, let’s go up.”

“To the roof?” Mickey asked, grabbing the bag of snacks.

“Yup, that’s the plan.”

Ian led them to the closest stairwell, peeking at Mickey a few times to double check his state of mind.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine. You can drop the Mother Teresa face,” Mickey said and Ian knocked him with his shoulder playfully. “Anyway, why’d you had those rings in your pocket, not on the shoelace. You were planning to propose?”

Ian shrugged cryptically. “Kinda.”

Mickey slowed a little, so Ian could enter the crumbling stairwell first. “What’s that mean?”

“You’ll see.”

“You’re gonna be a romantic fucker, aren’t you?”

“Like I said, a whole ass _pussy_ proposal.” He traced a pattern of crudely painted arrows on the wall of the stairwell, thinking about the tattoo on Mickey’s arm and how they’ll never escape their pasts. And how he was going to take advantage of the good shit whenever he could.

Like tonight.

They emerged onto the rooftop, stopping side by side as they looked over the open space. It was littered with debris, some of it Ian’s long forgotten obstacle course. Tires and pipes and empty barrels. The half walls were covered in more graffiti and protected them from the view of the outside world. They shared a look then Ian stepped forward.

“Relax and enjoy a beer,” he said, walking across the 4000 square feet of concrete until he found his hiding spot behind a broken radiator. He’d stashed some supplies there earlier in the day while Mickey had been at Kev’s gym.

With the two bags in hand, he found a relatively clean patch of roof with an unobstructed view of the night sky. He looked up at the nearly full moon and the spray of stars surrounding it.

“What’re you doing?” Mickey yelled across the rooftop. He was still standing near the entrance, beer in one hand, smoke in the other. Ian gawked for a minute. The guy was sexy as hell, but never more than when he was engaged in several of his vices. That shit should _not_ be as sexy as it was.

After dropping the bags to the cement rooftop and waving away the poof of dust, Ian yelled back. “Patience, grasshopper.”

Mickey shot him the finger, then found a stack of tires to sit on while Ian pulled things from the bags. He felt sort of self-conscious, knowing Mickey was watching him and not really knowing what he would think of all this. Despite knowing Mickey more intimately than any other person on Earth, there were still pockets of him that Ian hadn’t had a chance to get to know.

Shaking out one of the two quilts, Ian imagined marriage would change that knowledge and he hoped to god they remained compatible. The quilt floated down to the ground, and he adjusted the corners before he did the same with the second one.

“We’re gonna look at the stars, huh?”

“You can,” Ian said, adjusting the top blanket. “I’m gonna be looking at you.”

Mickey snorted. “Dumbass.”

Ian went back to searching through the bags. He found twelve small tealight candles and a lighter. One by one he lit them and placed them around the head of the makeshift bed, refusing to look at Mickey while he did so because he might have a little bit of a hissy fit if he made fun of Ian.

Next, he found the lube, condoms and some baby wipes, figuring that would shut Mickey up if he was thinking about yanking his chain. He tucked the stash under the corner of the top blanket then removed his jacket, which he folded into a pillow and placed near the line of candles. Satisfied with the set-up, he swiped into his phone, to the playlist he’d created, and when the music started playing, he finally looked at Mickey.

_You think I'd leave your side, baby_   
_You know me better than that_

As Sade sang softly, he set the phone next to the candles, deciding that they deserved this after all the fucking waiting. Mickey jumped off the stack of tires, tipping his beer to his lips then tossing the empty in the direction of the other bottles before making his way across the rooftop toward Ian. His intensity which had drawn Ian to him was fucking magnetic, and Ian licked his dry lips, watching his swagger hungrily.

Ian knew that walk so well, and the closer he got, the more his body responded, bending toward Mickey, feeling the pull, the need to fucking inhale him. His lips parted in anticipation, opening to Mickey’s mouth the second they touched. It was not the gentle sweet kiss they’d shared after the proposal, or the nearly absentminded peck they shared when Mickey returned from Kev’s, or even the slow buildup they shared most nights before they had sex.

It was the consuming need to feed off each other and see how fucking close they could get using their mouths and their hands until they had to break apart for air. Ian’s lips tingled, and Mickey’s jacket lay at their feet. The rest of their clothing followed before they crawled under the covers.

The ground was unforgiving and a chill radiated through the thick quilt beneath them, but they didn’t notice. Ian pushed up to one elbow, running his hand down Mickey’s chest where he lay on his back. His fingers traced the crudely drawn tattoo then circled his hard little nipple. He grinned and leaned in so his tongue could play with it while he listened for the slight intake of breath.

Groaning a little himself when Mickey’s fingers squeezed the back of his neck, pulling Ian’s mouth up to his. They remained that way for a while, lips locked and Mickey’s legs tangled with Ian’s, but carefully protecting his cast.

“This was when I planned to propose,” he said between kisses. “While I had you trapped here.”

“Not bad, Gallagher,” he nodded slowly. “Couldn’t hurt to ask one more time.”

Smiling at the idea that he just might ask Mickey to marry him a hundred more times now that his fear had been replaced with excitement, Ian cleared his throat. “I love you Mickey Milkovich, and if you’ll let me--”

“Not another pussy speech.” Mickey grinned smugly. “Course I’ll fucking marry you.”

“Will I ever learn?”

“Doesn’t seem likely,” he teased, tugging the quilt over Ian’s shoulder as a new song started playing. Ian looked at his phone, at the flicker of candlelight reflecting off the screen.

“Is this weird?” he asked. “Two grown men camping out under the stars with fucking candles and shit.”

“Honestly,” Mickey shrugged. “I’m more concerned you’re gonna start the place on fire. You get pretty excitable when you’ve got free access to my body.”

Ian didn’t know which part of that to respond to first since the idea of free access to Mickey’s body short circuited his brain momentarily. But he glanced at the tea lights and couldn’t stop himself from reaching an arm above Mickey’s head and one by one sliding the candles further away.

“We good now, Smokey the Bear?” Mickey laughed.

“As your husband, _my_ job is to keep you safe from danger,” Ian said seriously. “And of course, _your_ job is to obey.”

Before he could disobey, Ian leaned down to his lips, sucking greedily at the bottom one. Warm fingers caressed his lower back and he melted into the body beneath his, contentment as warm as the quilt around them.

He released his grip on Mickey’s hip to root around for the supplies he’d tucked away. When his fingers found the travel size lube, he snicked the lid open, making Mickey moan.

“Spread your legs,” Ian whispered, pressing a smile into the pulse on Mickey’s neck, sucking and licking down his throat then back up to his earlobe. “Wanna feel how tight you are.”

Mickey turned his body slightly toward Ian’s, hands coming up to Ian’s cheeks and pulling him into a slow kiss, while Ian slipped a finger into his body getting him ready.

“Feel good,” Ian murmured against his lips.

“Deeper.” He lifted his hips, seeking out Ian’s hand. When Ian added a second finger, Mickey lifted his head off the folded jacket, tongue sweeping around Ian’s mouth as he panted. “ _Fuck_.”

His head fell back to the jacket, eyes half closed, lips parted and slightly swollen.

“You looked fucked out already, Mick.” He kept his attention on Mickey while he reached under the blanket again. “I brought a condom for easy clean up.”

Mickey’s tongue swiped at the puffy bottom lip as Ian ripped into the packet with his teeth. “Been awhile since we’ve done it with a condom.”

“Like, the three times we actually attempted to have safe sex?” Ian grinned. “Shit, we were lucky.”

“Idiots.” He took the packet from Ian and tucked his head under the blanket in search of Ian’s waiting cock. Ian stared at the silver band on his finger as Mickey slid the rubber on. He ran a hand down the condom spreading some lube then he lifted his eyes to Ian’s. “Idiots in love.”

Ian hooked an arm under Mickey’s knee as he rolled between his legs, and Mickey’s foot immediately hooked around Ian’s cast, keeping his leg still. Pressing easily inside just a little, Ian waited for Mickey’s body to relax. “Fuck, I love lube.”

He tightened his arm, forcing Mickey’s leg further up and it gave Ian’s hips the room to move freely. His heart rate accelerated from one single complete slide into Mickey’s ass. The trip out pulled a groan from deep within his chest. “You’re gonna be the death of me, Mickey.”

“Damn right I will, if you think you’re coming before me.”

Ian dropped his forehead down to Mickey’s shoulder, chest heaving with laughter. When he got himself under control, he bit into the tight muscle. “I’m trying to make love to you, so shut up and let me.”

“By all means,” Mickey said, grandly.

“Now where was I?”

“Trying not to nut after one stroke?”

Ian’s chest rumbled again. “No, actually I was just about to look deep into your eyes...”

Mickey narrowed his eyes when Ian stared into them, sliding almost out of his ass.

"And ask if you would do me the honor of accepting my…”

He grinned down at his sexy fiance, whose eyes had softened, and he slid back in, “...load.”

The grin on Ian’s face fell away when Mickey clenched around him, so fucking tight that Ian felt his balls tighten in response. “Oh shit.”

Mickey dragged Ian’s mouth down to his, kissing him fully and lifting his hips to meet Ian’s thrusts.

Ian held on tightly, figuring it was probably a goddamn miracle that two stupid ass kids fell so desperately in love that they’d never given up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: very mild discussion of 3x6
> 
> Happy Thanksgiving to all you Americans <3


	22. Episode 10 Recap

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Full disclosure time! I've fallen behind...I will post episode 11 Sunday evening then the episode 11 recap and episode 12 WILL get posted sometime before Season 11 airs but I don't have a clear timeline. 
> 
> Thank you so much for sticking with me this month and leaving the best comments ever (which I have also fallen behind in replying too...damn work schedule). Enjoy the long awaited date night! (PS: Their aborted date to Sizzler was the reason I began writing fanfiction. I needed them to go on that damn date!)

**Here’s what you missed on the last episode of Shameless…**

**Gallagher House**

“I see it’s a _tucked in_ kind of night, huh?” Ian said, nudging Mickey’s hip so he’d move enough that he could grab clean boxers from the dresser drawer.

“What’s that mean?” Mickey asked, suspiciously.

“I know you like to tuck your shirt in when you’re getting fancy.” He didn’t even try to keep his smirk under control, and Mickey gave him the side eye, while he finished buttoning his dark blue button down.

After tugging the underwear on, Ian leaned against the dresser, eyes on Mickey’s shirt and grin still in place. Shooting Ian the middle finger, Mickey shoved the ends into his brand spankin’ new Levi’s and Ian chuckled as he opened another dresser drawer.

“Spritz a little cologne too,” Ian continued, finding a pair of jeans for himself. “Get all sexy for me.”

Mickey ran his hands over his hair once, looking a little unsure and Ian felt like a dick for teasing him. Once upon a time, Mickey hadn’t done those things and Ian had loved him, had barely even noticed the dirt under his nails, the holes in his socks, the old worn out sweaters.

“I used to study every pore on my face worried that you’d see me with a zit and run,” Ian confessed, grabbing a dark green pullover and following him out of their bedroom.

“Yeah, it was touch ‘n go there a few times.” Mickey shot over his shoulder. They were back in the bathroom, the steam barely evaporated since their shower. “With a mug like yours, it wouldn’t take much to scare me off.”

Ian squeezed in beside Mickey so they’d have to share the sink area and Ian could brush his teeth. “Well, little Milky, where should we go?” he asked, loading his toothbrush. “Dinner, movie, play pool, stroll along the waterfront?”

“This date was your idea.” He tipped the bottle of mouthwash, pouring a lid full then swished it around his mouth before spitting into the sink. “I’m just footin’ the bill. But all those things sound...nice.”

“I’m thinking wings, beer and pool at Corner Tap,” he said after spitting a mouthful of toothpaste.

“Shit,” Mickey sighed, eyes bright with excitement now. “You’re speaking my language, Gallagher.”

He splashed some aftershave into his palms then dragged them over his jawline and down his throat, head tipped back a little. Ian ran his eyes down the length of exposed skin, leaning in slightly and wondering if they should head back to the bedroom for a few minutes.

“Eye on the ball, Gallagher,” he said, turning to face Ian. “The long awaited date night, remember?”

Dropping his toothbrush into the cup, Ian gave Mickey’s neck one final look then nodded. “Okay, yeah, so dancing is definitely in order then.”

“I don’t think so.” Mickey shook his head, tapping his pocket for his smokes.

“I thought you were just footing the bill.”

“New plan,” he said, face determined. “I veto any bullshit ideas.”

“We’ll see.” Ian pecked his lips then turned toward the door, performing an awkward shimmy down the hallway. His walking boot interfered with his dance moves, but he could hear Mickey laughing behind him so he wiggled his ass when he reached the top of the stairs.

“Order an Uber, twinkle toes.”

Ian paused on the landing to look at him. “We can take the train.”

“Not on date night, man.” He gave Ian the eyebrows. “And don’t argue, for once.”

Reaching the bottom of the stairs, Ian dropped down to the arm of the couch to send the ride request, helping himself to a handful of popcorn from Frannie’s bowl, where it sat in her lap. She was watching an animated Christmas movie, and Liam sat next to her playing on his phone.

“It’s not Christmas yet, is it?” He teased his niece. “I haven’t had time to be a good boy!”

“It’s funny,” Frannie explained, pointing a finger at the TV. “The Grinch is grumpy all the time.”

“Reminds me of someone I know,” he mumbled, feigning interest on his phone.

“You wanna watch it with me, Uncle Ian?” She smiled up at him.

“Tomorrow.” He tweaked the end of her nose then leaned in close. “I got a date with my fiance tonight.”

“What’s that?” she asked. “A _fon-say_.”

Ian pointed at Mickey who stood with his arms crossed near the front entryway, looking very Grinch like and making Ian grin. “That’s a fiance.”

“Oh,” she said seriously, examining Mickey closely.

“A fiance,” Liam chimed in, “is someone you gotta kiss all day long.”

“ _Oh_ ,” she repeated. Her eyes pinballed between her two uncles.

Ian nodded in agreement. “Yeah, we’re probably gonna do some kissin’ tonight.”

“Good thing you’re going out,” Liam decided.

“No shit,” Carl said from the kitchen doorway. “I need a goddamn break.”

Ian just grinned at his siblings, too happy with life to even tease them back.

“Gallagher,” Mickey barked. “I’m goin’ out for a smoke.”

Ian stood up from the sofa, then leaned down to Frannie’s ear one last time. “I think my fiance might be The Grinch.”

Frannie’s eyes widened and her bowl of popcorn listed to the side. “But he’s not green!”

**Corner Tap Pub & Pool Hall**

Leaning into the padded back of their booth, Ian rubbed his belly. “I think I ate one too many of those salt ‘n pepper wings.”

Mickey eyed him, toothpick wedged between his lips. “So you havin’ fun?”

It sucked that they couldn’t enjoy this evening without the shadow of their aborted Sizzler date riding shotgun with them, but so far their first official date had gone off without a hitch. “I am.”

The place was a little crowded but they’d gotten there in time to get a back booth and take advantage of happy hour. Ian had broken the cardinal rule and was halfway through his second beer, wondering if he might push his luck and have a third one while they played pool.

The server arrived with some wet napkins and Mickey signaled to the half dozen pool tables. “Can you transfer our tab over there?” He glanced at Ian. “Hope your game has improved, Gallagher, cause I see a couple of rubes that I could take in my sleep.”

Ian shrugged. “Might be a little rusty.”

They gathered their coats and Ian followed Mickey to the furthest pool table, where a scrawny dude with a messy topknot and huge black man were attempting to clear the table. Even to Ian’s untrained eye, he could tell they were never gonna survive a game with Mickey. The little guy smacked the cue ball and it bounced on the felt, knocking lightly against a solid.

“Damn it,” he yelped, stepping back from the table and turning toward the new arrivals. “Oh my god! Ian!”

“Leo?”

“Tony, baby, look it’s Ian!”

Gaze moving quickly past Leo and Mickey, Ian spotted the guy who'd sat at the Gallagher kitchen table drawing a map of Beckman a year ago. “Hey Antonio.”

Ian reached a hand out to shake, and Antonio smiled.

“Small world,” Leo said, cue swinging a little in his excitement. “I didn’t know you were out.”

“Early release.” He looked at Mickey, who silently watched the interaction. “Remember…the guys I mentioned from County?”

“That were shit at long distance?” Mickey nodded. “Sure.”

Ian glanced quickly at Leo and Antonio, offering a silent apology over the awkwardness.

“I’m with Antonio now, right baby?” He cuddled into the man’s side, nearly disappearing into his jacket. The kid was basically the size of one of Antonio’s biceps.

Curling his arm around Leo’s shoulder, Antonio agreed. “Joselito’s loss is my gain.”

Leo beamed.

Remembering his own personal gain, he looked at Mickey but refrained from curling an arm around. “This is Mickey...my fiance.”

Leo clapped happily while Ian got used to the weirdness of hearing that word come out of his mouth. They hadn’t discussed any specifics over when they’d tie the knot, so he was settling into the idea of being engaged for a while.

“Congratulations,” Leo smiled at Ian. “The two of you must be communication experts.”

Mickey snorted, getting a quick look from Ian, while his brain slowly rewound to his time in County lockup. It was a blur of ho strikes and demands for sexual respect.

“Behavior, feelings, effect,” Leo said triumphantly, lifting a closed fist in solidarity.

“It’s the secret to our relationship,” Antonio agreed. “Sharing our needs and feelings but also taking responsibility for our reactions. We got you to thank for that, Ian.”

"We've started a support group for ex-cons having relationship problems," Leo explained. “Oh, Ian, could you speak at one of our meetings?”

Ian’s mouth might have dropped open in shock. Had those racing thoughts and frantic bouts of reading really paid off in such a tangible way? Had people _actually_ listened to him and benefited when he could barely remember what he'd told them?

“You're both using your “I” statements when talking?” Leo asked, looking between Ian and Mickey.

Ian glanced quickly at the frowning man beside him, then swallowed. “Uhh…”

“Can I get you anything?” The server arrived then, looking at the pair of fiances.

“I,” Mickey stressed the syllable for what felt to Ian like half a minute and pointed a thumb at his chest. “Need a beer.”

[Ian’s deleted “I” statement scene](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2yAY0g9ezrw&feature=youtu.be&fbclid=IwAR18j_iyJP9RKRMdStoJ2KaWT-dfmHTyw8NLAUszwt-92heS2thpqDRVSOo)

\-------

“Gotta pee,” Ian whined.

“Why the fuck didn’t you go before we left the damn bar?”

“I didn’t have to go then.”

“What’re ya five?” Shaking his head, Mickey pointed down a darkened alley. “I’ll keep lookout.”

When Ian hesitated, Mickey cracked up over the repulsed expression on the redhead’s face. “Suddenly, you got a silver spoon stuck up your ass, man?”

Ian gave him the finger. “If anyone’s got something up their ass, it ain’t me.”

“Funny guy. Piss your pants for all I care.”

He plucked a smoke from his pack and continued walking toward the Riverwalk. After two excruciating games of pool with Ian’s devoted followers and an exchange of phone numbers, they’d managed to get away and were now headed on a _stroll_.

“Okay! Jesus,” Ian yelled. “Keep an eye out. Please, Mick!”

Mickey lit the smoke, inhaled and fully exhaled before returning to the alley entrance. Ian had tucked himself behind an open dumpster, and Mickey ignored his demands that he remain at the alley entrance to watch for passersby. Instead, he came to stand beside Ian. “I guess you’re gonna have to add public urination to your list of crimes,” he snickered. “Finally a charge that’ll get you some street cred.”

“I blew up a van!”

Mickey laughed. “Okay, Mary Poppins.”

A stream of pee landed an inch from Mickey’s boot and his eyes bugged out. “What the fuck, asshole.”

A second stream landed even closer and Ian took off, nearly tripping over his walking boot as he tried to tuck himself in and hook his belt while avoiding Mickey’s hands. It wasn’t really a challenge for Mickey to catch him, so he watched the idiot fumble his way down the alley then turn to wait for Mickey, who sauntered slowly toward him.

Ian watched, anticipating Mickey’s retaliation, but he only glanced at Ian as he resumed their stroll. “Revenge,” he explained to a perplexed Gallagher, “is a dish best served cold.”

“What?” he said when he caught up to Mickey.

“Read that in a book,” he smirked, deciding maybe his time at Barry’s wasn’t a complete waste. “You should try reading sometime, Ian.”

Some grumbling ensued, but Mickey ignored it, focusing instead on all the colorful mini lights the city had strung along the trees lining the riverfront.

“Well, shit,” he said. “Look at how the lights reflect off the water.”

They’d reached the Clark Street Bridge and stopped to look down at the Chicago River. Shoulder to shoulder, they leaned on the railing, passing the remainder of the smoke between them.

“It really does look beautiful,” Ian agreed.

“Especially since the last river I saw was the Rio Grande in Juárez.”

“Yeah?”

“All those Mexicans risking their lives crossing that river to get to the US of fucking A, hoping life will be better here.”

Ian pressed into Mickey’s side, and they shared a look.

“Last time I saw it was on the drive from the US Consulate in Juárez to the States Attorney's office in El Paso where I sang like a canary.”

“Were you scared?”

“Not really.” He had studied the mud colored river that separated the two countries and hoped that he wasn’t making a huge mistake because his status as a free US citizen was almost as questionable as the desperate people hoping for a better life. “Kinda worried about you though.”

Ian sighed. “Wondering what you were going to find when you showed up in that cell?”

He flicked the butt into the dark river. “A little.”

Ian turned his body, so he could put all his attention on Mickey. “Thank you.”

Mickey nodded, tapping his temple against Ian’s jaw. “You’re my family, Ian.”

He watched Ian’s lips tip up and his chin tip down. “You’re my--”

“IAN!”

Mickey pulled away from Ian’s shoulder to glare at whoever the hell was about to interrupt their date _again_. A small group of people were headed toward them, a skinny red-headed chick in the lead. Her face was one big smile as she stared at Ian.

“Geneva?” Ian said, stepping away from the railing and onto the pedestrian walkway.

The moment she was close enough, she reached up to wrap her arms around Ian’s neck, squeezing tightly. When she stepped back to rejoin the other members of her party, Mickey reigned in his impulse to step between Ian and the group that had now gathered in a loose semi-circle. He recognized her name from their late night Gay Jesus talks.

“I didn’t know you were out,” Geneva said.

Before he could reply, a nerdy looking pubescent teen reached for Ian, clapping him on the back twice and smiling. “Good to see you, Ian.”

“Thanks, Skeet. How are you?”

“Good, man.”

Another chick stepped forward to take her turn at manhandling Ian and Mickey released his scowl. He had no problem letting them know he wasn’t impressed, since Ian’s body language screamed discomfort.

“Hey, Dina.”

“So how long have you been out?” Geneva pushed.

“Few weeks.” He smiled slightly. “Getting used to life on the outside.” He added a forced chuckle, like it was a joke and not an actual adjustment period that newly released prisoners went through.

Mickey watched closely as Ian nodded at the fourth person, a dude about Mickey’s height who lacked the swagger to make up for it. His hair was curling around his face and sprouting from his chin, but he didn’t step forward to hug Ian nor did Ian speak to him directly. Instead he slid his fingers between Mickey’s and tightened them, so Mickey tightened back.

“Oh,” Geneva said brightly. “We’re just returning from a fundraiser for Project Fierce that Trevor helped Dina organize. It was _amazing_. We raised almost $5000 for a new community youth shelter that specializes in risk behavior assessment.”

The group smiled as one, obviously waiting for a response, but Mickey sure as shit didn’t have one, and Ian was lost in his head somewhere, so everyone just ended up staring at each other.

“Oh, Ian,” Geneva continued, undaunted by the lack of response. “Trevor is organizing another event next month. You should come. In fact, you could speak about mental illness in prison. Right, Trevor?”

 _Uh_ , Mickey thought. Trevor, the boyfriend. Ian’s discomfort wasn’t such a mystery anymore.

“Yeah, _sure_ ,” said Trevor, stuffing his hands into the front pockets of his jeans after a long pause. “No doubt, you have _many_ life lessons you could share, Ian.”

Mickey nudged his nose with a knuckle, feeling the muscles along his shoulders tighten because something wasn’t right here. Ian stood silent, almost rigid beside him. Mickey was torn between telling the asshole he’d be lucky to have Ian speak at his thing and telling him Ian would be there over his dead body. He leaned toward the second option.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” He could feel his eyebrows hike up even though he wanted to remain civil for Ian’s sake, and not ruin their date.

Trevor looked at him for the first time before returning his attention to an unresponsive Ian. “What happened to your leg, Ian?”

The tightening in Mickey’s muscles spread down his arms to his fists. He had to inhale the urge to get in the dipshit’s face and end the fucking interrogation.

Ian’s fingers squeezed Mickey’s, keeping him glued to Ian’s side. “Fell down the stairs.”

“Sounds like some _crazy shit_ you got involved in.”

The way he said those two words rubbed Mickey the wrong way, and he was done being polite. “Look, man--”

“I’m doing really good,” Ian interrupted. “In fact, I’m getting married in a couple weeks.”

Everyone, including Mickey, looked at Ian. Couple weeks was news to Mickey, but he was down with that plan. Sooner the better as far as he was concerned.

“Married?” Trevor asked, disbelief evident in his whiny voice. “Why?”

“Cause I’m fucking knocked up,” Mickey said.

An embarrassing snort erupted from Ian, and Mickey looked down at his feet to hide his grin.

“Guys, this is my fiance.” Ian released his hand so he could pull Mickey into his side, arm tight around his shoulder, like the two lovebirds they’d beaten at pool earlier. “Mickey.”

A round of congratulatory hugs followed that announcement. This time apparently Trevor thought he’d look like a dick if he didn’t join in, so he loosely hugged Ian then stepped back.

“Looks like things worked out for you,” Trevor said.

“They definitely did,” Ian agreed. "We're on a date tonight."

“Oh, I guess we’ll let you go,” Geneva offered, finally reading the room. “My number hasn’t changed, Ian. Call me.”

Ian nodded and the group carried on toward the downtown core. As soon as they were gone, Ian reached into Mickey’s pocket for the smokes. Stuffing one between his lips, he turned away from the light breeze but the flame from the lighter kept snuffing out.

“Fuck,” Ian spat, flicking the lighter several more times unsuccessfully. “Fuck.”

“Calm down, man.”

Mickey pulled the smoke from Ian’s lips and lit it after a single flick of the lighter, earning a glare from Ian. After inhaling once, he returned it to Ian’s pouty lips.

“Some date this turned out to be,” Ian bitched, waving the smoke around vaguely.

“Cause of your old boyfriend?”

“Huh?” Ian frowned at him.

“You telling me that wasn’t your ex?”

“Oh, him, yeah,” Ian continued to wave the smoke, this time in the direction of downtown. “Last time, I saw Trevor _and_ Leo I was…” He tapped his head twice. “Fucking crazy.”

“Okay.”

“I get this need to save the world. Like I actually do want to help people, but it gets out of fucking hand when I start to get manic,” he explained, eyes searching Mickey’s.

“Sure, I’ve seen it happen.” _And it freaked the shit out of me._

“I wanted our date to be just us, ya know? Not a recap of the worst of Ian Gallagher.” His shoulders sank a little. “Why can’t we have that?”

“You’re making a mountain out of a couple of mole hills, Ian. I mean, we won forty bucks off those two pool sharks. Paid for our wings. What’s so bad about that?”

“Nothing, I guess.”

“And now your schedule is packed with speaking engagements, so you can stop texting me every five minutes cause you’re bored,” he teased.

“I really should be sharing my stellar communication skills with the world.”

“Look at me,” Mickey demanded, and Ian turned toward him, back in the position from earlier. Mickey facing the water, shoulder tucked into Ian’s chest. “What’s really going on?”

“I...might do some crazy shit at some point.” His breath fanned across Mickey’s temple and it felt so intimate that Mickey wanted to squeeze in closer, to have Ian hold him now while he was capable of doing that for Mickey.

“Yeah, probably. And you know what?”

Ian tipped his chin down to see Mickey’s face better. “What?”

“I... _will_ do some crazy shit at some point. No maybes about it.”

Laughing, Ian locked his arm around Mickey’s neck, tightening until his lips attached to Mickey’s temple, then he stepped back and leaned on the railing. “You better fuckin’ not. You don’t have the insanity excuse.”

“I got the criminal DNA excuse, Ian. Runs in my blood like fine wine.”

They both laughed now. “That makes no sense.”

“Yeah, well, don’t hog all the bad decision making and crazy shit, okay?” Mickey said sternly. “Now stop fucking moping around and get back to showing me a good time. Where to next?”

When Ian waggled his shoulders, hips moving in a series of ungraceful dance moves, Mickey turned toward him with a scowl.

“No fucking way!” He crossed his arms in defiance.

“Use your “I” statements, Mick!”

“I _feel_ like dumping your body in the Chicago River, Gallagher.”


	23. Episode 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My plan is to post episode 11 recap on Tuesday. Fingers crossed. ;0

**Gallagher House**

Hitting the alarm on his phone, Mickey curled back around Ian. He’d woken up with the redhead pressed to his chest, which was disconcerting enough but when he’d opened his eyes, he’d come face to face with a pair of tits. Needless to say, that was not a great start to the day, only made worse when he remembered they belonged to Ian’s mother.

Running his fingertip over the crude design, he imagined filling the globes in with ink and adding some additional lines, maybe creating something completely different.

“I didn’t know you were a boob man,” Ian said, voice gravelly from sleep.

“Guess you’re still learning new things about me. _Nah_ , I was thinking you could rework this tattoo.”

Ian hummed.

“Sorta looks like the Cookie Monster?” he decided, drawing circles over Ian’s skin. “You could do some highlighting and coloring, change the design.” Mickey slid his finger away from the ink to a constellation of freckles on the back of his neck, playing a game of connect the dots before pressing a kiss to the center of them. “If you wanna.”

With a little shuffling, Ian turned onto his back, eyeing Mickey through half closed lids. “Come lay on top of me.” He stretched an arm up, tucking it under Mickey’s head then using it to nudge him forward.

He settled over Ian’s body, lining up their dicks and tucking one knee between Ian’s legs before resting a cheek on his shoulder. Ian adjusted the blankets around them.

“Ah, that’s better.” Ian ran his palms over Mickey’s back, following the dip and swell to his ass then retracing the path. They stayed like that for several peaceful minutes, listening to the noises in the house. Ordinarily, they’d move from cuddles to orgasms, but neither of them seemed inclined this morning. Maybe, Mickey thought, they could enjoy this kind of alone time without thinking they had to take advantage of any opportunity to get off.

“Should shower,” Mickey mumbled into Ian’s neck after a while, savoring the way Ian’s arms tightened around him in protest. “Gotta be at work in a couple hours.”

“Okay, I wanna talk to Lip before he heads out. Meet you downstairs?”

But neither of them moved, recognizing that these were their moments. Mickey found Ian’s mouth and they forgot about the day ahead for a few more minutes. Despite the familiar feel of his body, Mickey focused on how tightly Ian held him and how the boy he remembered had become the man he now loved.

Reluctantly, he had to leave Ian in their bed and, as usual, the shower pressure was shit. If he was forced to live in the Gallagher house, then he was going to use some of his savings to hire a fucking plumber. He did a cursory wipe of his body, while reviewing their finances because he was thinking of using the cash he’d made off his investment to bankroll some sort of event for him and Ian to celebrate their wedding.

Unsure how much any wedding related items cost, he stood directly under the spray as he rinsed his hair and tried to imagine what their wedding would look like.

Of course, his first wedding came to mind. All those fucking folding chairs set up and barely anyone in them. Aside from a group of whores, who the fuck did Terry think was going to attend that shitshow? The bastard didn’t give a shit about any of it, other than the fact it happened and the whole fucking world knew that his son couldn’t be gay if he was getting hitched to the broad he’d allegedly knocked up.

He twisted the taps and reached for a towel, hating even the whiff of those memories. Now, he was planning a second wedding and fuck if he was going to throw that shit together in some goddamn basement and fuck if he was going to keep it a secret. Terry Milkovich was going to hear all about it, even if it was the last fucking thing Mickey did.

Wrapping the towel around his waist, he returned to the bedroom, searching the drawers for clean clothes and figuring he’d browbeat Ian into doing some goddamn laundry today since he’d see enough laundry in the can to last a thousand lifetimes.

_“Mickey! Mickey!”_

“Jesus,” Mickey hissed, stuffing his arms into the sleeveless vest then reaching back into their underwear drawer for his piece. “Speak of the fucking devil.”

_“I know you’re in there, you fuckin’ homo!”_

[Watch “I definitely love one” courtesy of Tue Milkovich](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=r-2zmFoYuas)

[Watch “Milwaukee sucks ass” courtesy of Tue Milkovich](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CPU7trUqt3E)

Ian’s coffee had gone cold, while he worried about Terry Milkovich’s bullshit and Lip’s hesitancy. He’d track his brother down later and press the matter, use some of his apparent communication expertise to remind Lip of what happens when you don’t address problems as they come up.

Pushing out of his chair, he moved toward the coffee maker and refocused on the immediate problem. “If we moved to another city, at least we’d be away from your Dad.”

“Have to go further than Milwaukee,” Mickey said between bites of Fruity O’s cereal. “It’s part of his regular run and full of his minions.”

With his coffee topped up, Ian made his way back to the table, but rather than sit down, he stopped beside Mickey’s chair, placing a hand on his shoulder. “You okay?”

“Sure, he backed down out there.” As Ian rubbed absentmindedly at his shoulder, Mickey finished the cereal and picked up his coffee cup. “It’s kind of weird actually.”

“Oh?”

“We’re more like...equals now.”

“Good,” Ian breathed. “We need to get this wedding thing done, so he backs off.”

Mickey nodded, tipping his head to look up at Ian. “Got a day in mind?”

“We should do it on a day you don’t work,” Ian concluded brilliantly. “And probably a weekend is best.”

“Makes sense.”

Ian clicked the button on the side of his watch. “Three weekends from now is...kind of an anniversary of ours.”

“Yeah?” He sipped his coffee, eyes focused on Ian. “This oughta be good.”

“Fuck off, I’m not gonna tell you now.”

“Ya, you are.”

“No, I’m not.”

To make his point, Ian stepped away, intent on ignoring the teasing, but Mickey grabbed his left hand, pulling him back into his space. He fingered the band on Ian’s finger, much like Ian had been doing earlier.

“Tell me.”

Huffing, Ian leaned his hip against Mickey’s arm. “My first day in prison.”

Mickey released his hand, so he could wrap an arm around Ian’s hips and nod.

“It’s a day I’d like to celebrate,” Ian decided.

**Shopping Mall**

Staring at the newsstand in Books A Million, Mickey felt the familiar stirrings of annoyance. The selection of wedding magazines gave the impression that only skinny white women were allowed to tie the knot. Considering there were barely even any straight grooms displayed, it seemed highly unlikely that he’d find gay wedding content.

Releasing a long suffering sigh, he pulled _Borrowed & Blue_ off the shelf since it was the only one that had a groom on the cover. He flipped through, immediately finding an article called “Setting the scene: How to pick flowers that complement your aesthetic,” which suggested he allot 5 to 8 percent of their budget for flowers.

That produced another frown since he had no idea what their budget was, let alone how much he should spend on flowers. He currently had seven grand in his bank account, but the look of some of the shit in the photos accompanying the article made him think he was gonna need a hell of a lot more. He grabbed a second magazine and made his way to the till.

“Good afternoon,” the clerk said with a huge smile when Mickey set his purchases on the counter in front of her. “Ohhh, congratulations!”

He gave a tight smile, pointing to the _Borrowed & Blue_ magazine, which was still open to the flower article. “You got any of those colored sticky things?”

“Sticky notes?” she asked.

“I’d say we’re on the right track.”

She laughed, coming around the counter to a table display behind Mickey where several piles of different sized packages sat.

“Gimme one of each.”

Nodding, she scooped them up and returned to her position. “Anything else?”

Tearing open the first pack of sticky notes, Mickey selected a pink one and stuck it to the article on budgeting for flowers. “Well, your selection of wedding magazines ain’t exactly queer friendly.”

“Oh, yes, I’m sorry,” she paused to chew her lip in thought. “There are a few gay wedding magazines available digitally.”

“Yeah, okay, thanks.”

He paid and took his bagged purchases to the bench outside Old Army since he still had twenty minutes left of his break. Flipping open to the pink tab, he bit into his sandwich while skimming the rest of the article. This time choosing a yellow sticky to put next to the suggestion to “Go big and dramatic in focal areas”. While he wasn’t sure yet what a focal area was, he could get on board with going big or going home.

Nelson walked past the display window and Mickey stood up, slowly making his way to the store while giving the magazine one more quick flip to see what else it contained. When he found an article on tips for planning a wedding on a tight timeline, he stuffed the magazine under his chin to free an extra large blue sticky note. As he adhered the square, he noted that the article mainly said to ask for help and to write everything down in a planner. Tasks, notes, dates, names, contacts.

Entering the lunchroom, he stuffed his belongings into his locker and remembered the butt ugly chairs at his first wedding. He’d pick up a planner after work, he decided, and write down CHAIRS in all caps at the top of the first page. Then he’d reserve one in the front row for the asshole who’d sired him.

**Gallagher House**

[Watch “We’re having a wedding, wedding?” courtesy of Tue](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Fp55BFvRdiM)

Ian spent the following day crossing items off the wedding to do list that Mickey had created for him, and making so many phone calls he barely had time to text Mickey during his shift at Old Army.

Ian (11:37am): What’s a chiavari chair and why do we need them?  
Mickey (11:38am): you want our guests to sit on the fucking floor?

Ian (12:55pm): Father Thomas doesn’t condone gay marriage so the acolytes are out  
Mickey (12:56pm): put your arson skills to use and blow that fucking church up ian

Ian (1:27pm): Who the fuck am I inviting to this? I thought it would just be family  
Mickey (1:28pm): jfc do i have to do everything? Scroll through your gd phone

Ian (2:39pm): Caterer is asking if we want seasonal veges mickey. wtf  
Mickey (2:40pm): course we do, no bullshit canned food! This ain’t prison bitch

Ian (2:55pm): I’m going insane Mickey! Salad too?  
Mickey (2:56pm): just no fucking potato salad if you wanna ever get laid again

Ian (3:45pm): now he’s asking about fabrics??????????????????  
Mickey (3:46pm): I’m down for tulle or organza preferably gold

Ian stared at his phone. “LIAM!” he yelled.

His little brother came stomping down the stairs to the kitchen where Ian sat at the table. “You bellowed?”

“Have I been acting strange lately?”

Laim shook his head. “Don’t think so.”

“So this is all really happening?”

Together they stared at the notes Ian had made on the slip of paper in front of him.

“I’m afraid so,” Liam concluded. “What’s a charger plate?”

Ian sighed. “No idea but I think I’m gonna find out.”

**Wedding District**

[Watch “You are homosexuals?” courtesy of Tue](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TPLCtseest4)

[Watch “You had one job” courtesy of Tue](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vp8xUmpopfg)

The door closed behind Mickey, leaving a stunned Ian to stare at the “Premises Monitored” sign above the door and wondering if he needed to get his hands on the security footage.

“ _Uh_ ,” he began as he turned toward Brooks. “Apparently my plate is full.”

“This is all my fault, Mr. Gallagher! I’ve been in this business long enough to know that a wedding is all about the details,” Brooks said, waving his shocked assistant forward from where she hovered in the backroom. “The darker chairs are significantly cheaper because we have extra stock on hand and don’t have to shop around. I wrongly assumed you’d prefer the cost saving.”

“Still,” Ian looked at the door again. “He’s not usually… _that_...expressive.”

“I’ll locate the gold Chiavaris immediately.”

Releasing a long breath, Ian nodded. “With white cushions?”

“Definitely.”

“Thanks, and I guess you can add that one,” they both turned to the pieces of wood scattered around the small shop, “to our bill.”

Brooks nodded. “If it makes you feel better, I’ve dealt with far worse.”

Ian wasn’t even sure at this point what would make him feel better, but it was clearly time to deal with the situation. If Terry had gotten into Mickey’s head this bad, there was no telling how far he would go to stop his father from interfering, and the ever present shadow of prison hovered around them.

Thanking Brooks one last time in an attempt to ensure they didn’t have to deal with any fallout, Ian exited the store. He found Mickey half a block up the street, smoking savagely. The stack of magazines and the planner dangled from his hand as he paced angrily.

“You talk Brooks out of pressing charges?” Mickey mumbled.

“All good. He feels responsible.”

“Someone should tell him about fucking aesthetic.”

Him and me both, Ian thought.

“He’s gonna track down the gold chairs,” Ian said, looking closely at the lines of stress between Mickey’s eyes. “And white cushions. I’ll check with him later about the linen order too.”

Mickey ignored him, not noting any of that in his planner and Ian was tempted to write it down for him.

“Wanna hit another flower shop now?” Ian suggested when the silence stretched out. “Find those Beyond Blue flowers?”

“No.” He shrugged and dropped the butt to the sidewalk, grinding it with his boot. “They’re closer to 10% of the goddamn budget anyway.”

“Maybe we don’t need so many? Then we could get nicer flowers, just fewer.”

Mickey finally flipped open the planner, putting on paper whatever was in his head. “I’ll just get the fucking gardenias. They go with the gold chairs anyway,” Mickey paused to look up from his book and give Ian a hard stare, then his attention returned to the damn planner.

“But you really liked them, Mick. There’s like 50 other flower shops on this block alone.”

“Gotta find some gay wedding magazines online,” Mickey said, eyes still on his planner, and Ian assumed this discussion was over. Apparently, Q-tip had ruined those flowers for him. Ian felt an urge to return to the shop and give her a piece of his mind, but he wasn’t letting Mickey anywhere near there. Not only was Terry dead set against supporting their marriage, so was way too much of mainstream society.

Ian decided to include those flowers in his next romantic evening, along with candles and some Bon Jovi. When he’d set up the romantic scene on the rooftop, he’d been sure Mickey would mock him, good-naturedly, but still finding it all silly. Except now that Ian was seeing this side of him, he started to really rethink how Mickey expressed his love. There was absolutely nothing subtle about it, and Ian was learning that Mickey needed these clear displays of love from Ian as well.

“I don’t know why everything has to suck, Mickey.” Ian slowly closed the planner, anticipating the scowl he’d get and smiling when it appeared. “But marrying you could never suck with or without Stargazer lilies.”

**Gallagher House**

[Watch “Where the fuck’s your ring?” courtesy of Tue](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jaXbQNZUts4)

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Ian cursed as his head smacked the edge of the bathroom sink for the second time. He was getting clumsier the more his anxiety was building. Maybe he should be wearing the ring around his neck instead of his finger.

Mickey was going to lose his shit if Ian couldn’t find his engagement ring. He’d think that Ian did it on purpose because he wasn’t as invested in their marriage as Mickey was, since everything set Mickey off lately.

No part of Ian wanted to stop this marriage from happening, not anymore, but a part of him still struggled with the big wedding and the groomzilla the planning process had unleashed. Every place they visited wanted a deposit that was more than they made in a week and that only covered a small portion of what it cost. They could buy a fucking car with the cash this one day was going to cost. Every cent they had--and way too many they didn’t have--was now tied up in food, flowers and chairs. Even more concerning was where exactly all the fucking money had come from to begin with.

On top of all _that_ , Terry was now threatening them with pansy poppers. He worried that the psychotic prick was becoming an actual threat not just background noise, and how that was taking a toll on Mickey.

Which left Ian with the job of pulling Mickey back from the brink of madness by reminding him why they were doing this. Not for spousal privilege, not to rub Terry’s nose in their relationship, not even to announce to the world that they were in love. They were doing it for themselves.

Ian stood up, bracing his hands on the sink ledge and releasing a sigh because how the hell was he going to remind Mickey of that when all the guy could see were details about the wedding, like goddamn soloists?

_Livin' on a Prayer._

“Shit.” He wanted to smack his head for not thinking of this earlier.

When he glanced down at the bar of soap, his ring lay beside it, exactly where he’d thought it would be. Wondering how he could have missed it, he slipped it onto his finger and shot off a text to Kev asking if Ricky Rat was still playing at Reggie’s Lounge.

**The Alibi**

[Watch “You’re a sneaky bastard” courtesy of Tue](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ELJz1AvfgP4)

**Gallagher House**

Ian flopped down on their bed. It had been a long ass day even if it had ended with a happy Mickey, who finally admitted that he’d let the wedding planning consume him. Not that Ian thought much was going to change in that regard, but at least, he’d be able to bring it up when Mickey was starting to lose his mind over centerpieces.

He heard the shower turn off and fluffed the pillow behind his back to wait for a clean Mickey to join him. The stack of wedding magazines and Mickey’s planner caught his eye from where they’d been tossed on the nightstand. Now he was wondering what exactly Mickey still had to complete on the dreaded to do list.

Flipping through it quickly, his eyes nearly popped out of his head. Considering he’d watched Mickey write in the damn thing for days, it shouldn’t have surprised him to find lists, quotes, names, numbers, reviews. Stuff was crossed out, other stuff circled and underlined. Page after page of shit that Ian struggled to even understand. Wedding invitation etiquette? Attention getting accents?

As Ian continued to flip through, his heart beat faster and faster. The OCD level anxiety practically oozed off the page and so much of it reminded Ian of his own journals, which he’d needed in order to alleviate the constant motion in his head. To direct the unhealthy energy consuming him.

“Fuck,” he hissed.

Whatever was at the root of all this was still a mystery to Ian. What about this wedding and all the minute details was so important to him that he was killing himself to make it perfect? It was damn well time for Ian to find out. He might not have actually spoken his vows, but he planned to follow through on them tonight.

Mickey entered the bedroom, giving the door a tug shut then tossing his towel onto the dresser. “Water pressure is shit, Gallagher. Makes me almost miss showering with 30 inmates.”

After pulling on boxers, he looked at Ian, noticing the planner open across his bare thighs. “What’re you doing?”

“It’s not really about your dad, is it?”

“Course it is. He’s either gonna back the fuck off or he’s gonna watch me marry the shit out of a man.”

Ian lifted the planner out of his lap and patted the bed between his legs. “Come here.”

Despite narrowing suspicious eyes, the offer was too enticing for Mickey to refuse and he crawled into the V shaped space, settling his back against Ian’s bare chest. His fingers immediately caressed Ian’s thigh, a pattern he’d gotten into whenever his hands were anywhere near Ian’s broken leg.

Ian laid the planner in Mickey’s lap. “I want to know where you’re at with each item on your list.”

“Pfft,” Mickey snorted. “Why you suddenly so interested?”

“I’ve been interested _sorta_ ,” he argued, despite them both knowing he found these details irrelevant. “Mostly, I’m just surprised that you want all this. I figured we'd do something small in the backyard or wherever.”

After a few minutes of quiet, Mickey opened the planner to the first page and the word “CHAIRS” written in large letters at the top. Apparently it was the first thing he’d put in the book, which made his freak out at the caterer’s more understandable at least.

“There’s just so many... _ugly_ fucking things in my past.”

Ian tightened his arms around Mickey’s waist, pulling him closer to his body and pressing his lips into his shoulder.

“That other wedding was one of those things.”

Ian released a lungful of air as he finally fucking got it. Why he’d been so slow to see it was the real mystery here. This wedding was an expression of what Mickey needed, to come so far out of the closet and out the darkness of his past that you’d have to be blind to not see him for who he was. Suddenly, Ian wanted that too. He wanted chairs and invitations and whatever the hell tulle was because it was going to be their statement to the world that Ian and Mickey were a unified front now.

He rubbed his chin on Mickey’s shoulder, lips next to his ear. “I wanna plan a wedding with you that they’ll hear about on the North fucking Side.”

Releasing his own breath, Mickey smiled. Ian could feel his cheek crease and he nuzzled his nose into the stubbly skin.

“I’m gonna fuck you so hard, Ian, that you’ll wanna plan a wedding every fucking night.”

When he started to close the book, Ian stopped him. “Nope, we plan _then_ we fuck. What’s up first on this 30 page to do list?”

Nodding, Mickey flipped through until he found the page he was looking for. “Pass me that pencil.” He motioned to the nightstand. “That goddamn soloist, Ian. We are not hiring him. I’ll give him credit for rockin’ out but he’s fucking tone deaf.”

“Ricky Ratt wasn’t available on short notice.”

“Yeah, well, I’ll sing it myself if I have to.”

“O-kay! This wedding is now getting interesting,” Ian laughed. “Fine, write down _find new soloist_. What else?”

Flipping to the next page, he circled Lip’s name. “Well, I assume your brother is your best man.”

“Yeah, for sure.”

“You ask him yet?”

“Not yet, but he’s not gonna say no.”

Ian could feel Mickey tense up then release a puff of frustrated air, so he reached for his phone, flipping through his contacts until he found his text conversation with his brother. “Will you do me the honor of being my best man?” he read as he typed.

Mickey crossed out the reminder on the page. “Just...feels good to cross shit out.”

“Yup, it kinda did,” Ian agreed. “What’s next?”

“Sandy’s going to narrow down some invitation options but we’re gonna have to send them electronically cause we’re almost out of time,” Mickey explained. “Except we don’t have a set guest list so no fucking point in having invitations.”

“True.” Ian glanced at the long line of names Mickey had already put together. Random aunts, uncles, cousins on both their sides. Names that seemed vaguely familiar and others that didn’t. In the spirit of things now, Ian flipped back to the contact list on his phone. “I have some EMT buddies, like Sam. You met him when you called the ambulance.”

“Think he’d wanna come after that shitshow?” Mickey tapped the end of the pencil against the page rather than write down Sam’s name.

“I think so. Before I went to x-ray, we talked about getting together.”

Mickey still hesitated and Ian knew why, so he took the pencil from his hand and wrote Sam’s name down himself. In fact, it felt right to invite the guy so he could see with his own eyes how much he and Mickey meant to each other.

“Who else?” He returned his attention to his phone. “Oh, and we could invite Leo and Antonio.”

Shrugging, Mickey wrote it down. “I’ve been gone so long, my list is fucking short, but those guys seemed okay.”

“Who’s Mrs. Shevchenko?” Ian asked, seeing the name on the page.

“She knew my mom, and Mandy and I stayed with her a few times when Terry sold us down the fucking river.”

Ian nodded. “Yeah, that’s a good idea. Who else do we know from our childhoods?” They were silent a minute, then Ian laughed. “We could invite my grade three teacher, Ms. Pudar, so I can ask her if you really did threaten to stab her with your pencil during detention.”

Mickey elbowed him in the ribs lightly. “I definitely did. That woman was a mega bitch.”

“Oh and speaking of people you threatened to stab, we could invite Q-tip to our bless-ed day.” Ian was howling now and Mickey tried to stab him with his current pencil.

“Watch it, Gallagher, or you’ll get this right in the fucking gums.”

“Oh my god, I can’t take you anywhere.”

“ME?” Mickey screeched. “She’s the one who started it!”

Ian hugged him one more time then stretched toward the nightstand drawer, pushing aside the handcuffs to reach the lube. Mickey stilled in his arms, watching this change of direction closely.

“Don’t mind me,” Ian said casually. “I promise to complete my guest list tomorrow morning. What’s next?”

 _Snick_ went the lid on the bottle of lube.

“Uhh,” Mickey breathed, looking down at Ian’s hands which were in front of him. “The, uh, cake.”

“ _Mm_. I like cake.” He gave the bottle a good squeeze, filling his palm generously.

Mickey nodded, ass wiggling a little as he anticipated where Ian’s hand was headed. “I like cake too.”

“Get naked,” Ian commanded. “Chocolate?”

“What?” Mickey asked, lifting his ass and sliding the material down his thighs before kicking the boxers out of the way.

“Cake?”

“Oh, you want chocolate?” Mickey’s shoulder blades pushed back into Ian’s chest as they stared down at his filling cock. Ian hadn’t touched him yet but just the idea of it seemed to be enough to get Mickey going. Ian’s dick responded and he rolled his hips against Mickey’s back.

“Yeah, chocolate.” Closing his fingers around Mickey’s cock, Ian flipped open the planner with his free hand. “Write that down.”

He had to return the pencil to Mickey’s hand and nudge him toward the book, since Ian’s slicked up hand was making some serious twisting motions and adding extra pressure whenever his palm slid over the tip.

“Write down chocolate, Mickey.” He repeated, smiling at the messy scrawl. “We need a cake topper?”

“Y-yeah, like the two grooms--” he grunted when Ian paused his stroking to cup his balls, thumb caressing them, “on the top of the, _mmmmm_ , cake.”

“Oh yeah, let me take care of that one,” Ian suggested, squeezing his hand. “Add it to my to do list. In fact, I’ll take care of the whole cake.”

Fiona would be calling tomorrow and she’d asked how she could participate in the wedding preparations.

Mickey appeared to have lost all interest in wedding planning, hips following Ian’s movements, seeking out his hand. So Ian slowed his movements, wanting to drag it out a bit longer.

“Photographer?” Ian whispered in his ear and got a shiver in response.

“Done,” he whispered back.

“Wedding bands?”

“Sandy.” Mickey moaned, trying to reach Ian’s head and pull him down to his mouth. “Fucking kiss me.”

“We’re not finished planning yet.” Ian did kiss his cheek, but then returned his attention to the planner.

“Tomorrow,” Mickey said, tossing the planner toward the end of the bed.

Ian grabbed one of the wedding magazines. “I was thinking we should do one of those quizzes.”

Mickey grabbed the magazine and tossed it over the edge of the bed.

“Later then?” Ian chuckled. “We got one more thing to clear up tonight.”

Mickey dropped his hand to Ian’s thigh, digging into the flesh and arching his back in pleasure. “Jesus, I liked you better when you didn’t give a shit.”

Snickering, Ian reached for his phone. “Hey, find the acoustic version of _Livin' on a Prayer_ that you like.”

“Fuck,” Mickey muttered, knowing exactly what that was going to do to the mood in the room.

As the classic country twang of the steel guitar filled their bedroom, Ian wrapped his fingers firmly around Mickey again, stroking slowly but steadily. “Will you walk down the aisle to me?”

Mickey turned his head until Ian’s chin nudged his temple and he pressed a quick kiss to the smooth skin.

“I wanna be waiting for you, Mickey,” he explained, speeding up his hand. “And I wanna pick the song that’s playing.”

Mickey’s body tensed up, and Ian finally let him reach a hand around to the back of Ian's neck, tugging him down till their lips met. At last.

[Bon Jovi rocking Livin’ On a Prayer, acoustic, hard :)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vlWYhtuGglU)

**Gallagher Backyard**

Frannie gleefully snatched the lobster card out of Ian’s hand and paired it with her own, then tossed them both down on the table like a poker player on the world circuit. It reminded Ian of how excited Jigsy used to get and he smiled at his niece, since it was surprising how many decent memories he had from prison.

Excited over how high her stack of pairs was getting, she started to stand up on the little bench seat in Lip and Tami’s motorhome.

“Hey,” Ian reminded her. “We can’t wake up Fred.”

She nodded and tried to sit back down, but the second she opened her mouth, she was back on her feet. “Do you got a octopus?”

“Go fish,” Ian whispered in an attempt to calm the kid down. His phone buzzed on the table beside him and Lip’s name appeared. While Frannie picked a new card, he read the message.

Lip (3:15pm): how’s fred?  
Ian (3:15pm): fred who?  
Lip (3:16pm): not sure actually, we can’t agree on a last name

Frannie had to cover her mouth with her hand when she discovered she’d made another pair. Ian gave her the thumbs up.

Ian (3:17pm): fred’s sleeping and Frannie’s kicking my ass at go fish  
Lip (3:17pm): She’s a beast. Oh and Liam is worried we’re all gonna leave him  
Ian (3:18pm): shit really? How do you know that?  
Lip (3:18pm): talked to him on my way out this morning. We should do something about that but I’m fucking swamped today  
Ian (3:19pm): on it

It only took two more rounds for Frannie to win and Ian ushered her out of the motorhome. After looking in on a sleeping Fred, he snapped the baby monitor receiver onto his belt and quietly closed the screen door.

An assortment of sporting equipment was tucked under the back porch and he found the football. “I’m gonna run inside and get Liam. You stay here and listen for Fred, okay?”

She ran to the middle of the backyard and held out her hands, fingers spread wide. Ian tossed the ball lightly, not wanting to knock her over with it even though she was tougher than she looked.

“Nice,” he shouted when she caught it easily. Probably better than he could currently do with his bum leg, but it felt good to be engaged in some form of exercise.

He hustled up the backstairs and into the house. It was quiet and Ian hoped that Liam hadn’t taken off without letting him know. The kid was good at keeping them up to date on his whereabouts, but he seriously had too much freedom for a ten year old. It was just that he seemed so responsible that it was easy to let him do his own thing.

“LIAM!” he yelled.

“WHAT?” he yelled from upstairs.

“Come play football with Fran and me.”

A snuffling sound erupted from the baby monitor and Ian looked down at the little display. Fred was still fast asleep, bundled into a little burrito style package.

“Meet me outside,” he yelled up to Liam. “I’m worried Frannie’s gonna kick my ass.”

He headed back to the porch and his phone started squawking. Fiona’s face appeared in the little bubble and he accepted the Facetime request.

“Hey Fi,” he smiled when her actual face appeared. She looked good, no dark circles under her eyes which he hadn’t realized were permanent things while living under the Gallagher roof.

“Ian,” she half sang his name, and he smiled even harder. “Where are you? The backyard?”

“Yup.” He twisted the phone to give her a quick view of the motorhome and Frannie tossing the football into the air and catching it.

“Frannie!” she yelled. “You guys playin’ ball?”

Ian returned the camera to his face. “Yeah, I was just getting Liam to join us.”

The smile on her face fell a little. “How is he?”

“Fine, I guess.” He shrugged. “When isn’t he?”

“That’s what worries me. Would we know if he wasn’t?”

Ian hesitated but decided she’d brought it up. “Maybe you could call him more often.”

“Shit,” she moaned. “Fuck, should I come home?”

“Fi,” Ian sighed. “I didn’t say that, but I think he might need a bit more consistency, ya know? From you.”

“Jesus, Ian.”

“Look, don’t fucking beat yourself up, okay? I’m here and I’ve got this but he still needs you.”

“Okay, yeah.” She nodded, lips firm. “I guess I feel fuckin’ guilty for leavin’ so it’s hard to face that every day.”

“Personally, I know nothing about burying my head in the sand, so you’ll have to talk to someone else about that.”

They laughed and the back door squeaked behind him. “You talking to Fi?” Liam asked.

“Hey, little man,” Fiona waved at the screen. “Everything work out with the school?”

“Yeah, I’m allowed to attend again. Thank god.”

They all laughed and Liam continued down the stairs toward a waiting Frannie.

“Thanks, Ian. I’ll make sure to be more consistent.”

“Might actually help the guilt,” he teased.

She stuck her tongue out at him. “How’s the big fat Ukrainian wedding planning going?”

Ian thought about the previous night and he smiled. Mickey had indeed fucked him into the goddamn mattress and he would forever view wedding planning as one of his favorite activities.

“That good?” Fiona chuckled.

“Yup!”

“Jesus. I bet it’s fuckin’ annoying living with the two of ya.”

Ian smiled hugely. “Carl definitely thinks so.”

“But the plans are comin’ together?” she pressed, eyes big and sincere. “I know a thing or two about planning one and how much shit you have to figure out.”

“Maybe you should be talking to Mickey then. Could discuss linens and shit.”

“Seriously?” she hooted. “He’s an actual groomzilla?”

“Fuck, you should’ve seen him at the caterer’s. But he’s got some shit to deal with, ya know?”

Fiona’s face softened. “Course, I know. Why do you think I’m single? So much shit, I don’t even know where to start.”

“Anyway, we went through a bunch of wedding stuff last night and I thought maybe you’d want to take care of the cake.”

“For sure.” She nodded eagerly. “What are you thinking? Something understated or over the top?”

“I can safely say that understated has not made an appearance in this wedding. Let ‘er rip, Fi.”

“So there’s a wedding theme and everything?”

“Gold chairs, blue flowers, some shit called tulle.”

“Oh, that sounds beautiful. Well, good for him. That boy has had it bad for you forever. He deserves this.”

They shared a long look and he could feel their past rewind between them. “Yeah, he does.”

“And so do you, _Sweetface_.” She ignored the tears forming in her eyes. “Just marry the hell out of him, okay?”

“That’s the plan.”

“Good! One Gallagher taken care of! So what flavor of cake?”

“Chocolate, but Mickey says there are 26 different kinds of chocolate cake.” Her eyes widened and he nodded. “I trust you to sort through all of them and pick one that won’t embarrass us in front of all our guests.”

She laughed, displaying her crossed fingers.

“Apparently, we also need a cake topper.”

“Totally. So what, two grooms posing?”

“Since you won’t be there, pick something memorable.”

“UNCLE IAN,” Frannie called. “WE’RE WAAAAAAITING.”

“Give all my little Gallaghers kisses for me, okay?” She wiped her eyes quickly. “I miss you guys every minute of every day.”

“Well then you better get a life,” Ian teased. “We miss you too. Maybe you can come visit over Christmas?”

“I won’t miss it. I’m off to find the perfect chocolate cake now!”

A half hour later, Mickey appeared on the back porch. “Ian Gallagher, free labor to anyone with a kid,” he shouted down at the group.

Ian waved at him. “Come join us!” He had one hand on the stroller, rocking it back and forth as Fred chewed on his fist, and he lobbed the football at a waiting Liam.

Mickey intercepted Frannie’s toss, paused to kiss Ian then tossed the ball at Liam. “We got an appointment soon at a suit place downtown.”

“How soon? Lip’s not back yet.”

“We gotta leave in an hour.”

“Okay, rock this stroller while I text him.”

Mickey peered down at Freddie, who paused eating his hand to peer back.

“Uncle Miiiiiickey, throw the ball,” Frannie singsonged, hands in position.

“Nice form, kid.” He tossed it her way. “You remembered what I told you.”

Ian chewed his cheek, wondering if this might be a good time to bring up kids with Mickey. He knew they would be spending their life together no matter what the outcome of that conversation was, but maybe it was a good idea to talk about it _before_ getting married.

“What?” Mickey said, giving him a confused scowl.

“Nothing.”

Saving this conversation for another time, he started typing a message to Lip when the man himself appeared at the gate. He made his way toward the stroller, reaching in to extract his son.

“Thanks, Ian. You’ve been a life saver.”

“More like a nanny,” Mickey mumbled.

Ian rolled his eyes then figured he’d get the idea underway at least. “I love kids. A lot.”

“Well, we’d all have to be blind to not know that shit, Ian.”

Lip laughed. “How about I make it up to you both by organizing your stag? Got some ideas.”

That got a smile from Mickey, and Ian wanted to hug Lip for the thoughtful gesture. “When? Not much time left.”

“The night before the wedding? True stag style.”

“Sure,” Ian agreed. “Mick?”

“I’m pretty sure I’m free that night.”

**Knighton Men’s Wear**

“Jesus Christ, Gallagher,” Mickey grunted. “That old dude is gonna have us arrested for indecency.”

“ _Pff_ ,” Ian countered. “He’s as gay as the day is long. Probably getting off over the idea of us in here together.”

“OH MY GOD!” Mickey squeezed his eyes shut. “Why do you gotta do shit like that to me? Huh?”

Ian laughed at his scrunched up face. “Well, it’s not every day I see you in a fancy suit. I can’t be held responsible for my actions.”

“What’s the damn point in seeing me in a suit if you’re just gonna rip it off me the second I put it on?”

“Exactly,” Ian nodded like he’d won the argument. Then he dove into the warm spot at the base of Mickey’s neck, and his hands slipped under the silky pant material. “Just gimme a second then we can get back to trying on suits.”

“We don’t got all day. In fact,” Mickey started squirming under Ian’s touch. The movement exposed more of his throat and Ian licked the entire length of it, getting a swat to the side of his head. “We were supposed to start looking for suits three months before the wedding.”

“Well, if we’d done that our wedding suits would be yellow.”

Mickey’s mouth was too inviting for Ian to resist and he attacked it before Mickey could resist. Two swirls of his tongue and Mickey had clearly forgotten where they were. Until the store owner’s voice carried through the changing room door.

“We have the Loro Piana twill in absolute blue only.”

Mickey shoved his hands into Ian’s chest, eyebrows raised threateningly. Laughing, Ian stepped back until his shoulder blades hit the changing room wall. He palmed his hard-on, pressing into it and moaning quietly, while his free hand began unbuttoning his dress shirt.

“Sirs?” the man queried. “Absolute blue?”

“ _Black_ ,” Mickey shouted, hand on his own erection now. “And make sure it’s textured.”

[by Steorie](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/steorie)


	24. Episode 11 Recap

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oops a day later than planned, so I'm gonna go ahead and guess the final chapter will arrive Sunday just in time for season 11. That's what deadlines are for lol.

**Here’s what you missed on the last episode of Shameless…**

**Empty lot in the ‘hood**

It had been way too long since Mickey had enjoyed a true South Side style bonfire. They’d been a staple of his childhood, a way for the neighborhood to come together in solidarity over the shitty hand of cards they’d been dealt. Mickey and his brothers had seen the events as sanctioned opportunities to expand their neighborhood participation from local thugs to goddamn Mad Max road warriors.

One winter when he’d been about 16, they’d pushed a beaten up Chevy Cavalier into the empty lot where a crowd had gathered around a decent sized fire. They’d doused the car in stolen lighter fluid and lit it up _good_. With testosterone flowing through their veins, they’d practically howled at the moon because nothing back then got them going like destruction and mayhem.

Of course, the cops had shown up moments later and the crowd had scattered like cockroaches, everyone except Mickey. He’d hung around, daring the pigs to fucking arrest him. Their hands had been full trying to put out the rapidly spreading fire, so one lone belligerent punk standing around smoking a cigarette hadn’t really interested them.

Tonight’s party was more contained than the ones from his memory. Maybe because Lip hadn’t let the party get out of hand or maybe because he had built up those happy moments into something more substantial than they really were.

Either way, Lip had gotten his hands on a bunch of metal burn barrels and placed them in the center of the empty lot where Batty Sheila’s place used to sit. The six foot flames lit up the entire west corner of 46th up to the L, like an invitation to every loser in Canaryville to head on down with their coolers of beer.

Some of the faces he recognized as permanent fixtures in the neighborhood. Some of the faces reminded him of a young Mickey, little shits looking for trouble and willing to make some if there wasn’t any readily available. And some of the faces reminded him more of who he’d become, a world weary ex-con about to make his ghetto husband his official husband and just wanting a fucking break.

The flame of Ian’s hair stood out from across the lot, almost as bright a blaze as the actual fire between them. He was currently putting Carl and his junior GI Joe buddies through some elaborate routines involving push-ups and bottles of beer. Earlier, he’d overheard Officer Gallagher threatening to disembowel them with a sock full of dimes if they didn’t drop and give him twenty. Mickey decided Officer Gallagher needed to make an appearance later tonight as well.

Tucking that thought away, he noticed Sandy and Debbie making out against one of the train trellises behind Ian, and he looked away from that shit, spotting a bundled up Frannie trying to shove a dozen marshmallows onto a stick like a shish kabob. After confirming that Liam had that under control, Mickey lost interest in the Gallaghers and tossed his empty beer bottle into the bonfire.

Lip had also arranged for a giant wireless speaker complete with colorful light show synchronized to the booming base of Bon Jovi’s greatest hits. Apparently, word had traveled through the ranks about Ian’s sneaky little performance, so Mickey had to live down yet another way too personal Alibi moment.

But it was a good night. The temperature had even cooperated, and he felt cozy in Ian’s old parka and a pair of fingerless gloves.

“Beer?” Lip asked, from where he’d appeared at Mickey’s side with a bottle of Old Style.

Accepting it gladly, Mickey gave his soon to be brother-in-law a suspicious look. “You my manservant now?”

“It's been a lifelong dream of mine.” He drove the point home by flipping open his pack of Malboros and offering one to Mickey along with his lighter.

They watched Frannie approach the bonfire with her stick of marshmallows and Liam help her keep the stick steady.

“Glad to be home?” Lip asked, sipping from his can of Coke.

“Yeah.”

“I don’t mean are you glad to be back with Ian, but actually glad to be back on the South Side?” Lip pressed. “Now that you're a big world traveler.”

“It’s no Garden of fucking Eden here but it’s my shithole.”

Lip tapped his can against Mickey’s beer bottle. “No escaping it.”

“Actually, I _did_ escape,” Mickey laughed, then assessed Lip carefully. “This better not be about buttering me up to move to fucking Milwaukee.”

Lip inhaled deeply, releasing smoke through tight lips. Something was bothering the guy, but it was none of Mickey’s damn business. He'd no doubt hear all about it from Ian anyway.

“You’re the best thing that ever happened to my brother,” Lip said, eyes still on his niece as she waved the row of burning marshmallows.

“You practicing your best man speech for tomorrow?”

“What?” Lip returned his look, eye wide with surprise. “I have to give a speech?”

“Jesus fucking Christ, I’m gonna strangle that--”

Lip started laughing, bringing the smoke up to his lips to hide how pleased he was to get under Mickey’s skin.

“Asshole.”

“Don’t worry. Ian’s been all over _my_ ass making sure I was ready for tomorrow.”

“Better be.”

“So yeah, I’m gonna say a few things like that. Be prepared to cry like a baby.”

Snorting, Mickey tucked his smoke between the fingers of the hand holding his beer bottle, then he offered the free hand to Lip. “Deal.”

Lip returned the smoke to his lips and shook. It was weird and not something he'd ever do under ordinary circumstances, but a wedding seemed to make him do all kinds of crazy shit.

“And,” Mickey added, “thanks for tonight, man. No fucking clubs or strippers or stupid shit.”

“Well technically, you do have a stripper for the evening.”

He looked in the direction of Lip’s nod to find that Ian had left Carl’s band of little mercenaries to join Debbie and Sandy, and the three of them were dancing and hollering along with Bon Jovi’s _Wanted Dead or Alive_.

“He won’t be taking his clothes off for anyone but me ever again.”

Lip nodded. “That’s a helluva commitment.”

“Not really.” Mickey didn’t elaborate. If Lip felt about Tami how Mickey felt about Ian, he’d get it, and if he didn’t then nothing Mickey said would change his mind.

Three hoodlums came tearing into the crowd of partiers, carrying folded sidewalk chalkboards. Mickey tipped his head to read the smudged handwritten messages.

_Brunch 2 for 1 mimosas._

“Fucking hipsters,” he spat.

The punks tossed the wooden boards into the bonfire, briefly dousing the lot in near darkness before some old dude used a stick to adjust the embers.

“Go home gentrifiers!” Lip shouted in the spirit of the moment.

“Might be time to do something about that,” he smirked. “You gonna follow through this time, College.”

“We got this princess wedding to deal with first,” Lip teased right back. “And how ‘bout seeing the end of parole before committing a new felony?”

“Starting to sound like Ian, man,” Mickey complained. “I swear the guy thinks I’m gonna take some fucking classes and become a goddamn accountant.”

“Pretty sure, he just wants you on this side of the prison gates.”

“Yeah, well, I can do that without reading a fucking textbook.” He glared at Lip. “That’s your fucking department.”

“Don’t see me doing it either, do you?” Lip flicked his smoke toward the fire, missing by a foot at least, so Mickey flicked his and grinned when it landed dead center of the flames. “Show off.”

“Bet I started smoking before you did,” Mickey challenged, watching Ian pull a toasted marshmallow off Frannie’s stick.

“Bet you didn’t.”

Mickey gave Lip a quick once over. “Grade one,” he challenged.

“Start of the school year or end?” Lip countered.

“New Year’s Eve. Stole my dad’s pack when he passed out. Was gonna sell them to the old drunks loitering under the L with Frank, but decided to try one myself,” Mickey paused to sigh at the memory. “It was like coming home.”

“Late fall, all the leaves were gone,” Lip said, ducking his head. “Found a half finished butt on the sidewalk outside the Cook County Mental Health Center.”

Mickey had smoked a shit ton out front of that place, while trying not to lose his goddamn mind, and he’d been an adult at the time.

“Your mom?”

“Who else?”

Thank fuck Ian decided to shuffle his way to them at that moment, tongue working some rogue marshmallow off the corner of his mouth that Mickey wanted to use his tongue to clean up himself.

"Hi, hubby," he purred, crowding into Mickey's space. “What are you boys talking about?”

“Flower arrangements,” Lip said.

“Once upon a time, I would assume that was a joke, but now I’m not so sure.” Ian grinned down at Mickey like he was so damn clever.

“Hey.” Lip stepped forward, giving Ian a quick hug. “Congrats, brother. I gotta head to the house. Work some shit out with Tami.”

Ian nodded, arm still outstretched to Lip's shoulder. “Yeah, good call and give Freddie a kiss for me.”

Mickey snorted.

“What’s the matter, Mick?” Ian smirked. “You jealous? Need some of my kisses?”

When he tried to follow through on that, Mickey jabbed his gut lightly and Ian howled with laughter. “Fine. I’ll just give all my kisses to Fred from now on, since you don’t appreciate them.”

“I’ll leave you two alone.” Lip started walking backwards.

“Good luck,” Ian ignored Mickey’s protests and laid his arm over his shoulders, relaxing his body into Mickey’s. “And thanks for tonight. Total blast especially since Frank is holded up in Glencoe and not here to stink the fucking place up.”

“So he probably didn’t get his invitation for tomorrow, huh?”

“Lost in the mail.”

Lip chuckled, waved and turned away.

“Hey,” Ian tightened his arm so Mickey couldn’t escape, and Mickey slipped his arm around Ian’s waist. “What did you and Lip actually talk about?”

“You,” he grinned up at Ian. “We talked about how perfect you are and how lucky I am to be marrying you tomorrow.”

“I assumed that but what else?”

Mickey shrugged against the weight of Ian’s arm. “Our shared appreciation of cigarettes and a desire to keep the South Side like God intended.”

“How’d he intend it?”

“Free from fucking fagaccinos.”

“Excuse me?” Ian’s eyes widened.

“Hipster coffee shops. Something Iggy had said,” he explained. “I gave your brother a hard time for going to college back in the day. Feel kinda bad about that now.”

“Why? Cause you’re starting college soon and will need his help?” Ian gave him a purely innocent look.

“Yes, exactly. I’m going to the Ivy Tower, Ian, so I can buy my bride a McMansion one day.”

“I deserve good things, Mick.” Ian booped his cold nose against Mickey’s. “And you’re a good thing.”

“So you finally believe you deserve to be loved, huh?”

“Eh, most of the time.” He squeezed Mickey to his side, while surveying their bachelor party. It didn’t appear to be winding down. In fact, it looked like two new fires had started in the adjoining lot. “You having fun?”

“Sure, what’s not to like about a bonfire?”

“Good memories.”

“Yup.”

“I was thinking,” Ian began, pausing so Mickey could play his part in this ongoing script.

“What’d I tell you about thinking, Ian?”

That cold nose touched his temple and Mickey had to talk himself out of turning his head so his lips could press against Ian’s. He’d save the PDA for their ceremony tomorrow, where he was going to let Ian kiss him in front of 150 people.

“Can you design something to cover my tattoo?” Ian finally said. “Something similar to yours.”

He did turn to look at Ian now. “South Side forever?”

“ _Mhm_.”

“Sure you don’t want Cookie Monster?”

“Back up plan if this doesn’t pan out.”

Nodding, Mickey risked a quick kiss to the side of Ian’s mouth, making sure his tongue swiped the crease for melted marshmallow. “Got some ideas.”

“I’ll get you a planner,” Ian chuckled, and they watched Sandy approach.

“Pretty decent party your brother throws.” She whipped a joint out from her back pocket and tucked it between her lips. “But I’d be shirking _my_ best man duties if I didn’t get you two high.”

After inhaling herself, she passed it to Mickey. “All set for tomorrow?”

Ian snickered. “You’ve seen his planner, Sandy.”

While Mickey exhaled into Ian’s face and Ian punched his arm, Sandy hummed. “Let’s see if I can remember,” she hesitated, eyes red rimmed and laughing. “Yellow post-its are budget related.”

Snagging the joint from Mickey’s fingers, Ian added, “And blue for _aesthetic_!”

“Fuck you both.” Mickey intercepted the joint before Sandy had her turn. “ _Pink_ is fucking aesthetic.”

All three of them started laughing at that, and Ian draped his arm over Mickey’s shoulders again, nuzzling into his neck because the idiot got high off a couple tokes.

“Mickey’s been talking in his sleep about _Chi_ -ah-vari chairs,” Ian said. “These fuckers better be goddamn magic on the ass after all the shit we went through to get them.”

Huffing, Mickey swatted at Ian’s face. “Just you wait and see, asshole. Now, go get me a beer.”

“If you say please, hubby.”

“Please.” Mickey shook his head and Ian pouted. “ _Hubby_.”

“One beer coming right up!”

Once he was out of earshot, Mickey turned to Sandy. “Ian’s been googling how to kill your father-in-law.”

“Shit, did he learn nothing with the whole Paula bullshit?”

“Have you met him?” he snapped. “What’s Terry been up to?”

“Don’t know, Mick,” she said seriously. “He’s been kinda quiet. No more pansy poppers or threats to have you kidnapped and sent to conversion therapy camp.”

“So he’s got a fucking plan then.”

“Probably.”

“Then we need one too.” He chewed on a jagged hangnail. “How the fuck do we plan when we don’t know what he’s gonna do?”

“We just keep our eyes open.” She shrugged. “And you don’t let him get into your head. This is your stag and your pre-wedding night. He wasn’t fucking invited.”

Bon Jovi started singing _It’s My Life_ , and Mickey looked at Ian. He’d been waylaid by Liam and Frannie on his way to the beer cooler and currently had his head bent to look at whatever Liam held in his hands.

“Dealing with Terry the last few weeks has been a royal pain in my ass, Sandy,” he explained, eyes still on Ian. “But it’s also kinda freeing because he seems like a pathetic old man holding onto a fucking grudge not the devil I always thought he was.”

Ian and Liam moved in closer to the bonfire, and Frannie tucked in behind Ian to watch them toss handfuls of crystals into the flames. Immediately, the bonfire became an inferno of blues and greens, the edges a vibrant purple. Ian clapped his hands, smiling hugely and swinging Frannie into his arms. Liam held a new bag of crystals up to the girl, and she tossed a handful toward the flames. This time turning them hot pink.

Mickey turned away from the pyrotechnics display to look at Sandy. “I’ll see the bastard in hell, before I ever let him hurt Ian.”

“I got your back.”

She nodded, then headed toward Ian and the kids, swinging Frannie from his arms. Just as Ian finally arrived with his beer, police sirens blasted across the lot, breaking through the pounding rock music and the excited chatter of the party goers.

“RUN!” Someone yelled. “PIGS!”

Sandy started laughing and hooting like the party had finally gotten started, and Mickey looked down at Ian’s walking boot.

“Fuck’s sake.”

[Shameless Pilot Opening Scene](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_Ga5F11wLdg&feature=youtu.be&fbclid=IwAR0N4wmGKbzia9LWkLaw7dji1XrLmHvtPLFL1GFu0WsCuAgn-j6eNaEdzbY)

**Gallagher House**

“Mickey?” Ian whispered from where he stood in their bedroom doorway. He’d left Carl passed out in the boys’ room and crept through the darkened hallway. “You awake, Mick?”

“You held out longer than I figured you would.”

“Can’t sleep without you.”

Mickey flipped the quilt back and Ian hustled his ass into bed, crowding Mickey against the wall so he could lay his head on the same pillow.

“I tried.”

“Glad you failed.”

Their bent knees pressed together beneath the warm comforter, and Ian rested his palm on Mickey’s bare hip.

“I really thought it would make tomorrow night more special if we slept apart tonight.”

“We probably slept apart too many nights already.”

Ian slid his head a little closer to Mickey’s, so he could make out each fleck of blue in his eyes. “Once you’re shackled to me for eternity then you can never sleep anywhere else again.”

“I’ll add it to the vows.”

Ian transferred his attention to Mickey’s lips, thinking about how soft they were and how much he’d always wanted to kiss them. As he stared, they tipped up a little, small smile forming.

“Are you thinking about me kissing you?” Ian asked.

“Nah, daydreaming about Chiavari chairs.”

“Do you love those chairs more than you love me?” They laughed quietly when Mickey shrugged. “You know, you always smile right before I kiss you.”

“Guess I must like kissing you.”

Ian thought about a time when kissing wasn’t on the table and he sighed. “Remember when you invited me to a sleepover and we kissed our faces off?”

“Fuck you is what you were invited to, if I recall.” Mickey’s hand came up to Ian’s chin, holding it in place. “You were also invited to a sleepover so I could kiss your fucking face off.”

Ian wedged one of his knees between Mickey’s, giving his hip a little tug to bring his body closer. “What do you remember from that night?”

“That I never got to find out if Segal stopped all those mercenaries in time.”

“If Van Damme had been there, he would’ve for sure.”

They looked at each other for a few minutes, each remembering how special that night had been. It had solidified something for them and they’d never been able to break free of it no matter what events followed.

“I remember it took you _for-fucking-ever_ to kiss me,” Mickey whispered.

“I was fucking terrified, Mickey.”

“Of what?”

“Everything,” Ian admitted, sliding his leg further between Mickey’s, feeling his thighs tighten around Ian’s. “You. My skill. Premature ejaculation.”

Mickey reached for Ian’s hand, placing the palm against his chest. “I remember thinking I might be having a fucking heart attack cause it was pounding so hard in my chest.”

“Me too,” Ian breathed and the hand on Mickey’s hip moved to his lower back, fingers kneading the muscles. “What else?”

“I was freaking out that you expected me to make the first move,” Mickey said. “But then I remembered it was Ian Gallagher I was dealing with and all I needed to do was sit back and wait for you to get impatient.”

Ian tried not to smile, narrowing his eyes. “I had no idea whether you’d actually let me kiss you, and if you were going to let me, how the fuck was I going to get to that point?”

_Ian turned his head, eyes immediately spotting the tip of Mickey’s tongue where it peeked out from between his lips. “Mickey…” The word slipped out by accident, but once it was in the air between them, Ian needed to know. “Can I...kiss you?”_

_“What are you waiting for, Gallagher?”_

_Ian’s hand shot up, cupping the side of Mickey’s face firmly. He leaned forward, eyes still on his lips. The fullness and the way they tipped up into a small smile. He ran his thumb over the bottom one because he’d wanted to touch it for so long, he ached with that need._

_When his lips parted like the sexiest invitation ever sent, Ian leaned all the way in, eyes fully closed and heart so fucking open, he sighed when his mouth finally pressed against Mickey’s. They fit together naturally, like they’d done it more than the one time in the van._

_Mickey’s lip nestled between Ian’s and everything slowed down, everything except the blood in his body. That rushed to his nerve endings and he pulled away just enough to come in from a slightly different angle. Then he felt the tip of Mickey’s tongue touch his, and fire lit a path along his spine, giving him the courage to slide his tongue between Mickey’s lip and into his waiting mouth._

_His lips parted further to allow Ian access, but his tongue withdrew, and just as Ian was starting to panic, to feel the inevitable rejection, Mickey’s tongue brushed against his. Up and over the top then slowly withdrawing again._

_Heart thudding painfully, Ian pressed Mickey into the back of the sofa, hand still cupping his head, fingers firm as he searched his mouth, desperate to feel that connection again. Moaning when they touched._

_The almost elicit feeling it gave Ian to have Mickey’s tongue in his mouth, to feel it swirling around his own, consumed every ounce of his attention. His entire existence hinged on this moment, on what Mickey was going to let him do, how far he’d let Ian go. Images of Mickey naked beneath him, mouths still connected._

_Ian couldn’t control himself. He’d only just achieved something he’d seriously doubted he’d ever experience and already he needed more._

Only an inch of pillow space separated their lips, but Ian didn’t move, instead savoring this rare moment of patience because he had the knowledge that they were committing to each other for life. “I’m fucking insatiable when it comes to you.”

Mickey’s back arched under Ian’s palm, bringing their bodies together and Ian tightened his embrace so they’d stay that way. He dropped his gaze to those full lips again, waiting for the smile before he made his move.

_Mickey let himself want this. He let himself feel it. The warmth of Ian’s palm on his cheek, the press of the sofa where Ian had him pinned, the glide of their tongues. When Mickey retreated, Ian pushed into his mouth, demanding, taking away his control, his decision making, the last shreds of hesitation._

_And with that surrender, he felt himself relax and soften in a way he’d never experienced before. He wanted, needed, to give this to Ian, to let him take whatever he wanted from Mickey because everything he took Mickey wanted to give._

_“Lay down, Mickey.”_

_Hands tugged at his hips, pulling him forward and turning his body, but his focus never left Ian’s mouth. The play of their tongues, the way Ian decided when they took a breath, sometimes longer than Mickey’s lungs could handle and he moaned with the need for air and fear that Ian would stop. When the weight of Ian’s body pressed him into the cushions, he inhaled, hands raking up his back and holding him there._

“I love you, Ian.”

Then just the feel of familiar weight pressing him into the mattress, the possessive demand for his mouth, the soul deep knowledge that he could let himself go and still be safe.


	25. Episode 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, it's the end of the line for me. I've no doubt that season 11 will be the start of a new set of issues where these two are concerned, but a girl's gotta dream that maybe this time they will actually tell the whole story. Thanks for reading and you know I love chatting with you in the comments, so I'll be back eventually for more conversation.  
> Stay strong and safe <3

**Gallagher House**

“Jesus Christ,” Ian groaned. “I finally fucking understand aesthetic.”

Mickey was on his knees in front of him, eyelashes fluttering each time Ian hit the back of his throat, pale skin flushed from the effort to not choke on Ian’s thrusts. It was goddamn beautiful.

They were in the bathroom, supposedly getting ready to head to the Bamboo Lotus for the 9:00am delivery of $700 worth of fucking flowers.

Mickey swallowed at the exact moment Ian slammed back into his mouth and he smacked his head against the bathroom door to stop himself from shouting in pleasure. He could hear Frannie asking about her flower dress, and Carl yell at Liam to bring him the nail clippers from the downstairs bathroom.

When Ian shifted his hips away, Mickey followed him, sucking Ian back into his mouth. The household activity faded to a buzz and Ian’s body released the tension that had accumulated since they’d woken up. Mickey bobbed a couple more times then dropped back to his calves, breathing almost as heavily as Ian.

“Fuck, man, that shit’s so good it should be illegal.”

Ian cracked his eyes open to grin down at Mickey. “It’s certainly aesthetically pleasing.”

“Yeah? You like the look of me choking on your cock?”

All Ian could do was bang his head against the door again. “So is _that_ my wedding present?” he asked.

“Don’t be gay, Ian.”

They’d been doing this for over a week. Ian asking if Mickey had found his wedding present and Mickey replying that men don’t buy each other stupid gifts.

“But you are gay,” Ian reminded him by wiping some of Ian’s come from his lower lip and lifting his eyebrows to emphasize his point.

“Nah, just like having another man’s dick in my mouth.”

“Jesus, I need a cold shower.”

[”Get the fuck out, shithead” courtesy of Tue](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-w6_qCvcic8&list=PLpwjzlSVwVtxGPhjkb7BhIT6yF1tfMwY7&index=64)

Tossing the towel on the bed, Ian tugged Mickey forward and started gnawing on his neck. “Need some help getting dressed, Mickey?”

“I need some help getting _somethin’_.” His dick had been thinking about Ian the whole time he’d been shaving despite his plan to wait till tonight. Apparently neither of them was any damn good at waiting.

“Lay down,” Ian mumbled into his neck before releasing his hold on Mickey’s hips.

Mickey flopped back onto the single bed, hand on his dick, eyes never leaving Ian as he made his way to the hidey-hole above the bunk bed. As usual, Ian rid himself of his shirt, tossing it aside before returning with the Jergens and toilet paper.

“You’re getting a hand job because I’m not done with your neck.” Filling his palm full of lotion, Ian's eyes wandered down Mickey’s body and Mickey twisted his fist a little in encouragement. “While you were... _gone_ , I googled why I sniff you so much.”

The idea that Ian was obsessed with his scent might turn Mickey on, but it was still his job to bust Ian’s balls. “And did Google tell you that you’re a pervert?”

"I didn't need Google for that." Ian laid down beside him, resting on one elbow and swiping his palm along Mickey’s length and shutting him up. "What I found out is that your smell increases my sex hormone production, which is why I can't get enough of you.”

At a loss for words for maybe the first time in his life, Mickey opened his eyes to look at Ian, then he reached a hand up to the back of his head, pulling him down until Mickey’s nose could press into Ian’s neck. He inhaled deeply.

“ _Ohhh_.”

“Sex hormone is definitely being released right now.” Chuckling, Ian tipped up his chin since Mickey was now snuggled right into his body, heavy breathing giving away how close he was to climax. When Ian tightened his fist, Mickey tensed, back arching and face pressing into Ian’s shoulder until he dropped back to the bed like a rag doll.

After a couple minutes of stillness, Ian wiped them up. “We should get up. Gotta deal with the flower delivery.”

“Told Chang to be ready for them in case we’re late.”

“Choi, Mickey. You really gotta start learning people’s names.”

“I’m sure as shit not gonna start with the dude who owns the Bamboo Lotus.”

Swatting his bare hip, Ian swung his cast over the edge of the bed and grabbed the button down he’d been wearing last night. “Get up,” he repeated, stuffing an arm into the shirt. “Where’d I put my pants?”

Ignoring him, Mickey said more to himself than to Ian, “Our suits look real good. I was worried I mighta made some bad decisions while you deepthroat me in that change room, but apparently even with my cock in your mouth I got good fucking taste. Maybe we can arrange for you to do that every time I gotta make a decision.”

“How about making the decision to get your ass out of bed?” Ian paused to toss a sweater at Mickey to encourage him to get dressed. “Also I keep having nightmares about how you're paying for all this shit.”

“Savings. I told you that.”

“How’d you get the savings though?” Ian stood up and Mickey finally pulled the sweater over his head. “You didn’t rob anyone, did you?”

“As if I need to rob anyone.” Scoffing, Mickey didn’t bother to tell Ian that his latest investment hadn't panned out since the US border protection confiscated his shipment due to suspicion over--

“ _It’s on fire_.”

Mickey’s heart slammed into his chest and he reached for a random pair of pants, knowing the thing he’d been dreading had finally arrived.

“Mickey?” Ian said, face confused. “Did she say--”

“ _Dude, it’s on fucking fire!_ ”

It looked like his wedding day might also be the day that Mickey killed his father.

[”Are you done?” courtesy of Tue](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ihOyWkbIlZ4&list=PLpwjzlSVwVtxGPhjkb7BhIT6yF1tfMwY7&index=65)

“Carl! Where the fuck’s my 12-gauge!” Mickey yelled the moment he stepped through the back door into the kitchen.

“You said you were done, Mickey!” Ian nearly fell down the stairs when Mickey tried to slam the door in his face, but he wedged his walking boot against the jam just in time. While he barely felt the impact, Mickey's eyes got huge and he released the door like it’d burned him.

“Carl! Grab the cuffs from my night stand!” Ian glared at Mickey then pointed at one of the kitchen chairs. “Sit your ass down.”

“He needs to fucking die, Ian.”

Since Mickey hadn’t moved, Ian pulled the chair out for him. “Sit.”

Carl appeared, tossing the cuffs into Ian’s outstretched hand. Watching Mickey closely for further retaliation, Ian grabbed one of his wrists and snapped the cuff onto it without protest. They looked at each and Ian tugged him forward, so he could snap the other cuff to the back of a kitchen chair.

Mickey looked at it and laughed without humor. " _Pluh-lease_."

“I’d like to see you get away with that fucking chair dragging behind you,” Ian snapped. He touched his fingertips to Mickey’s cheekbone. “Carl, get him some frozen peas for the swelling.”

Mickey slumped into the chair with a long, weary release of air. “He’s gotta die, Ian.”

Mickey’s face was gonna look like hell in all their wedding photos, which would forever remind them that they’d underestimated Terry and he’d fucked shit up for them yet again. At this point, Ian wasn’t sure he even _really_ wanted to stop Mickey from killing the psychotic prick, but he wasn’t spending his honeymoon at the cop shop.

With the bag of peas in hand, Ian leaned down to Mickey’s level. “He’s not dying by your hand and certainly not on our fucking wedding day.”

[”Hate always wins” courtesy of Tue](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=J69Gj5Q7yX4&list=PLpwjzlSVwVtxGPhjkb7BhIT6yF1tfMwY7&index=66)

“I need to piss, Gallagher.”

When Ian just stared at him from his seat at the island, Mickey yanked on the handcuffs, rattling the kitchen chair aggressively. He imagined getting free and using them to cuff Terry to a cement block then pushing him off the Clark Street Bridge into the Chicago River where he’d become fish food. This was at least the dozenth plan he'd made the last half hour.

He could see Debbie and Sandy helping the flower delivery dudes with all the goddamn gardenias. Craning his neck, he tried to get a look at them, while Carl finished a call to the old fire hall turned party venue and Ian ignored him.

“You hear me?” Mickey snapped.

“Yeah, yeah.” Ian hopped down from the stool but didn’t move any closer. “You gonna run?”

“What difference does it make?” Mickey challenged, giving the cuffs another tug. “You aren’t gonna let me pee on the kitchen floor like some bitch.”

“I’m not releasing you unless you promise, Mickey.”

“Get these fucking cuffs off me now.”

Sighing dramatically, Ian finally jammed the key into the lock and released it but quickly closed his fingers around Mickey’s wrist like a cuff. “I’ll escort you.”

“Google was right. You are a pervert.” Mickey yanked his arm free when they entered the tiny bathroom with Ian hovering behind him at the doorway. “I can’t piss with you staring at me.”

“ _Please_ , you shit in front of me for 9 fucking months.”

Mickey turned to face Ian, looking up at him. “You're right. I’m sorry,” he said quietly and Ian softened, reaching his fingers to Mickey’s cheekbone.

“Me too, Mick. I didn’t want to hit--”

When Ian stepped away from the door to get a closer look at his eye, Mickey shot past him, slamming the bathroom door and attempting to hold it closed while reaching for a kitchen chair to shove under the doorknob. It was futile though because Ian was pissed and kicked the door open with his good foot, nearly smacking Mickey in the face with it.

“We’re not free if he’s alive!” Mickey yelled, getting surprised looks from the flower guys.

“We’re not free if you’re in prison.” Scooping Mickey up by the armpits, Ian hefted him on top of the washing machine and caught the handcuffs that Carl threw at him. Mickey gave the punk a death glare that promised swift retribution for all the backstabbing he’d done on Ian’s behalf this morning.

“Sit here,” Ian said firmly.

 _Snick_ went the handcuff around his wrist.

“And think about what you’ve done.”

 _Snick_ went the second cuff to the shelf behind Mickey.

“Get him a beer, Carl.”

“You won’t stop me from killing him, Ian.”

Accepting the can from Carl, Ian placed it into Mickey’s free hand. “Drink.”

[”Look I love you!” courtesy of Tue](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=y-7czMP4CHg&list=PLpwjzlSVwVtxGPhjkb7BhIT6yF1tfMwY7&index=67)

[Mickey is marrying Debbie?” courtesy of Tue](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=44OJDMyEnyk&list=PLpwjzlSVwVtxGPhjkb7BhIT6yF1tfMwY7&index=68)

“I’m so tired,” Mickey sighed. “I just wanna marry you, not your fucking sister.”

Ian studied his face, the worry lines between his brows, the anger in his eyes, the frustrated way his thumb nail tucked between his teeth. Fishing the key from his pocket, Ian unhooked him from the handcuff, then he gently pulled the ragged nail away from his mouth.

“We got the paperwork and a minister. We don’t really need anything else to get married.”

The lines between Mickey’s brows turned into craters.

“Okay, okay,” Ian agreed, holding tight to Mickey’s hand. “Then it’s gotta be whatever half baked plan Lip has for the Polish Doll.”

“With the fucking fag fixer. Why the hell do we always have to deal with homophobic fucks?”

Ian figured it was time for some distraction. He ran his hands up the sides of Mickey’s thighs, over the heavy sweat material until he could tug him to the edge of the washing machine, bodies inches apart.

“Let me do the worrying today, okay?” He kneaded the flesh under his fingers and Mickey’s legs locked behind Ian’s thighs. “Seriously, you have to let me take care of shit sometimes, Mickey. That’s how this works.”

“If he hurts you, I’ll lose my goddamn mind.”

“If you end up in that shithole for another 15 years, I’ll lose mine.”

They kissed quietly for a moment, eventually resting their foreheads together, and Mickey reached for Ian’s hands, linking their fingers together in his lap. “How’s your bite?”

Ian turned his arm, so they could see the teeth marks Mickey had left. “For future reference, I prefer bite marks on other parts of my body. Also, I’m sorry about your Halloween candy.”

"Whatever, not like this fucking neighborhood isn't crawling with shitty fathers," he shrugged. “I guess we should get into our suits.”

Ian stepped back. “I’m going to talk to Geneva and see if she can get the Rainbow Squad to guard the doors.”

“Against Terry fucking Milkovich,” Mickey scoffed, reaching for his beer, which Ian snagged from his hand and polished off himself.

“Love wins,” Ian said.

“It fucking better.”

“Let’s go get married, Mickey.” Ian smiled. “Need a hand getting off this washing machine?”

“You’re pretty funny, Gallagher.” He pursed his lips in annoyance but also lifted his arms. “Fine, but if any of those assholes see you lifting me, I’m adding them to my kill list along with Terry.”

Ian leaned in, hands shaping around Mickey’s ass and scooping him up. The position brought him in contact with Mickey’s neck and he smiled.

“Try to make it up all the way up the stairs this time before getting on me, Ian.”

“No promises,” he mumbled into the warmth of his neck. “Also I can’t see shit so you gotta guide me.”

“This is gonna end with you breaking your other leg.” Mickey tightened his legs around Ian’s hips. “I gotta call Brooks, tell him to deliver the food to the new venue.”

Ian paused at the foot of the stairs and Mickey laughed as he slid down Ian’s body. “You gave it the old college try, champ.” Turning, he started up the stairs with Ian right behind him. “Oh, and I gotta call the photographer.”

“Better check your list.”

“Need to talk to Sandy about redirecting the wedding guests. Fuck,” he spat. “I’m gonna kill that motherf--”

“Hey?” Ian grabbed the back of his sweater, just as he rounded the top of the stairs toward the hallway. “How many guns are in this house?”

“Why?”

Ian gave the sweater a yank. “How many, Mickey? And don’t lie to me.”

“Four.”

[”You want kids?” courtesy of Tue](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dpyKaNvJYL8&list=PLpwjzlSVwVtxGPhjkb7BhIT6yF1tfMwY7&index=69)

**The Polish Doll**

[”Which one of you is the groom?” courtesy of Tue](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MPEeXJWguvo&list=PLpwjzlSVwVtxGPhjkb7BhIT6yF1tfMwY7&index=70)

[Gallaghers helping the Gallavich marriage courtesy of Tue](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PmzFsPe1cwM&list=PLpwjzlSVwVtxGPhjkb7BhIT6yF1tfMwY7&index=71)

Mickey released a lung full of smoke. He’d managed to sneak out the back door of the Polish Doll and was now pacing the alley in agitation. The collar of his dress shirt was starting to choke him and he jammed a finger between it and his throat.

Why the fuck had he thought a big wedding was a good idea? If they’d just gone to the fucking courthouse, they’d be married now. He had no doubts that Ian would have gone through with it this time. In fact, all the shit they went through after the courthouse had sorted out a lot of their commitment fears. Mickey knew Ian was in this for good now, and he only had to hold out thirty more minutes and they’d be married.

He stuffed the smoke between his lips and inhaled again, wondering when the soothing embrace of nicotine would kick in.

Needing a distraction, he started to mentally review the vows. Once they’d decided to go old school rather than write their own, he’d thought seriously about each of the promises he was about to make. Not only was this wedding more than a piece of paper, the words he spoke today were more than just lip service. He’d even done his own share of googling and discovering that to “have and hold” someone meant sticking with them even when shit got hard.

“For better or worse...” he said on an exhale of smoke.

“In sickness and in health.”

Mickey turned toward Ian's voice, and they stared at each other, while Mickey calmed down.

“So basically, we’re agreeing to love and care for each other no matter what, huh?" Ian eventually said. "Even when you’re a grumpy fucker, I gotta cherish you.”

“ _Pfft_ , that’s when you love me the most, bitch.”

“If you’re ever sweet-natured and easygoing, do I still have to love you?”

“Hell no.”

Ian snagged the smoke, took one long drag then returned it. “You look kinda nervous. Do I need to fuck you behind that hedge?”

Mickey glanced at the four foot shrub then back at Ian. “Let’s elope to the courthouse.”

“Okay,” Ian nodded. “We can walk away right now. The guests have booze and food will be delivered in a couple hours. They'll barely notice we're not here. ”

While Ian calmly explained their escape plan, Mickey chewed on his lip seriously considering it.

“ _But_ ,” Ian continued, “we got a 24 hour waiting period, so we won’t be married until Monday at the earliest.”

“Shit, okay, fine. Fuck.”

Ian laughed. “That’s the spirit.”

“Go away now.”

“Okay, but you better not change your mind.” He narrowed his eyes at Mickey. “I didn’t bring the cuffs.”

“I guess you’ll find out soon enough.”

Ian shrugged as he reached for the door. “If there’s one thing I know for sure,” he paused to look back at Mickey. “It’s that Mickey Milkovich will always come for me.”

He held the door for Sandy and Frannie when they appeared. “Nice petals, Frannie,” Ian said and then he was gone.

“You ready?” Sandy asked, looking at him closely. “Me and Frannie don’t want to do this alone, do we Frannie?”

The little girl stepped forward and showed Mickey the rose petals inside her satin basket. “I’m gonna make a path for you to follow, so you can find Uncle Ian. He’s waiting for you.”

Nodding, Mickey plucked one out and looked into her serious eyes. "Lead the way."

[The Gallavich Wedding courtesy of Tue](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GmccpNvFbpk&list=PLpwjzlSVwVtxGPhjkb7BhIT6yF1tfMwY7&index=72)

Somewhere near The Polish Doll

“What good are your giraffe legs if they can’t reach the fucking fire escape?”

“Shut up,” Ian laughed and he squatted a little so his next jump would get more momentum. This time his fingers connected with the metal stairs and they came crashing down along with him.

Josh’s camera hadn’t stopped clicking since they’d left The Polish Doll. The photographer had gotten pictures of them walking and talking, smoking and laughing, and of course he’d caught on camera their bickering over stupid shit. Ian was going to cherish every one of these photos.

Mickey waved Ian up the red, metal fire escape then followed closely. When they came to the first landing, they looked down at the photographer, who was still standing in the alley, camera pointed up at them.

“Awesome shot,” he yelled. Ian glanced behind him at the crumbling brick building covered in bright green and blue graffiti. “Lean on the railing.”

“You heard the man,” Ian said, resting his arms on the chipped red paint. Mickey leaned in too and they looked at the camera.

“How ‘bout a kiss?” the guy suggested.

Ian only looked at Mickey, letting him set the tone for this photo shoot.

“You think I care what that little shit thinks?” Mickey scoffed. “You see his goatee.”

Ian laughed and leaned in, lingering over his lips until Mickey nudged him away.

“Don’t mean I want him to see your fucking sex hormones go crazy.”

“I wouldn’t mind seeing some pictures of _that_.”

“Okay, me too, but we take them ourselves or that shit doesn’t happen.” Mickey waved Ian up the next flight of stairs. “The view’s pretty cool up here.”

When they reached the top of the five story building, puffing slightly as they walked onto the roof, Ian spun around slowly.

“This is perfect.”

“Told ya.”

“I can see for miles.” He hobbled to the edge of the roof, scanning the skyline. “I see St. Matthew’s so our house must be one of those.”

Mickey came to stand beside him, resting his head on Ian’s shoulder and pointing into the horizon. “Garfield Park.”

“The dugouts,” Ian smiled. He turned his head to kiss Mickey’s forehead. “You sure know how to put together a fucking wedding, Mick.”

**The Polish Doll**

“Men have always had men,” Frank announced to the room. “And these two men have had each other since they were kids.”

“Jesus Christ,” Mickey muttered between bites of roast beef. “Who invited him?”

Swiping a napkin over his mouth, Ian sighed. “Liam. I guess he figured I should have a parent representative today.”

He wished it were possible to ignore Frank but the guy was like a bad rash that was resistant to all ointments. At the moment, the rash had made his way to the front of the hall where the DJ passed him the microphone.

“It was Thomas Paine, who said it best during the French Revolution,” he announced like anyone was going to give a shit about his history lesson.

Yet, somehow the neighborhood drunk still had the ability to get people’s attention as the wedding guests listened politely for whatever he had to say next, even Mickey set his cutlery down. But that was probably more so he didn’t end up stabbing Frank.

“Revolution is permissible when the government fails to safeguard the natural rights of its people,” he explained, pumping a fist into the air to punctuate his statement. “Illinois recognized same-sex marriage less than a decade ago, and it was about damn time.”

This got a cheer from the crowd and Ian figured he’d let the asshole stay a little longer.

Frank raised his beer bottle and the rest of the hall followed his lead. “The best love is based on a friendship that catches on fire.”

Kev stood up, raising his own beer. “To sandwiches!”

When the crowd started chanting a combination of “to sandwiches” and “kiss, kiss”, Ian leaned in to Mickey’s laughing lips. “You have any idea what Kev is talking about?”

“I’m living the dream.” He closed the space between them and Ian lifted a hand to the back of Mickey’s head, since there may not be that many opportunities in their future where they’d be so public with their affection and he was going to push the envelope all goddamn night.

“Anyone here wanna buy the father of the redheaded groom a drink?”

On cue, Lip took the microphone from Frank, giving him a light shove toward his seat. “Thanks for coming everyone,” Lip looked around the hundred or so people who were seated at tables, finishing their meal. “The day got off to a rocky start, but it ended up being a beautiful wedding. Personally, I wanted to say that the Chiavari chairs were a showstopper.”

He grinned at Mickey, who shot him the finger, and Ian draped his arm over the back of Mickey’s gold chair. Just in case.

“But even more important than chairs,” Lip continued. “I wanted to say that I’m proud of my little brother. I’ve watched him face a lot of shit and told him once that no matter what happens, he’s got this.”

Lip looked down at the floor for a minute before continuing. “But I don’t think he believed me at the time because he couldn’t see what I’ve always been able to see." He turned to face Ian. "A fiercely independent, determined little shit who _never_ took no for an answer.”

Mickey’s hand dropped to Ian’s knee and squeezed.

“I _also_ told him once that he got kinda loco whenever Mickey was around.”

Mickey’s fingers tightened a little more and Ian covered them with his hand.

“His world would revolve around building a life with Mickey, even though he was basically still a kid. Back then, I didn’t really understand it,” Lip paused to scan the crowd and find his own budding family. “I get it now though. When you love someone with all your heart, you get kinda loco.”

Ian’s fingers tangled with Mickey’s.

“I guess what I’m trying to say is...told you so, Ian." They shared another smile before Lip raised his glass. "You really do got this. To the grooms!”

More cheering and clinking and demands for kissing followed. When Mickey looked down at their joined hands, Ian pressed a long kiss to his cheek, closing his eyes against the softness. “I’m loco for you,” he whispered and smiled himself when he felt Mickey’s cheek crease.

Before taking her turn at the microphone, Sandy dropped a square box and an envelope on the table in front of them.

“I am honored to be Mickey’s best man,” Sandy began after Lip returned to his seat next to Tami. “As Mandy said last night when we were talking, the best man is always a woman.”

Debbie whistled from where she was seated with Frannie on her lap.

“I’ve always looked up to Mickey. Like a true Milkovich, he doesn’t take any shit, but he’s the only Milkovich I could always trust to be there, even when we were kids,” she paused to look at Mickey, and Ian tightened the arm around Mickey's shoulder.

“I never told him this but hearing about his famous coming out speech when I was 16 changed my life.”

She paused again and Ian placed a hand over Mickey’s beating heart, tipping his nose into his hair.

“I came out that day too. Not in a spectacular way, but it’s the last time I hid who I was, and if I had one goddamn wish, it would be to have been there to see it gone down with my own eyes.” She was interrupted by cheering from the guests, waiting until they quieted before she continued. “May we all one day find a love that inspires us enough to hump a police car in front of the Alibi.”

The entire room stood up, hooting and clapping, but Ian and Mickey didn’t move. Ian was afraid if he looked at Mickey he might actually cry, and he could feel Mickey’s heart hammering against his palm. The guests seemed to sense this because they didn’t push for a kiss, and after Sandy handed the microphone back to the DJ, she stopped in front of their table.

“Congratulations,” she said, smiling at her cousin, but Mickey only nodded.

“Thanks, Sandy,” Ian responded on their behalf, but Sandy seemed to understand. “Is this from you?”

The three of them looked at the white box on the table and the dark blue envelope affixed to the top. Sandy shook her head. “Mandy.”

“Oh!” Ian removed his arm from around Mickey to pull the box toward them, and Sandy gave them some privacy. “Should we open it now, Mick?”

“Have at ‘er.”

There was still a couple of inches between their chairs, so Ian gave Mickey’s chair one more tug until no space remained, which made Mickey roll his eyes and laugh.

“Want me to sit in your fucking lap?”

“Don’t tease me with shit like that.”

“Just open the damn box.”

Knowing Mickey had gotten himself together, Ian pried the card off the box and handed it to him to open. “You read it. I wanna see what’s inside.”

Using the butter knife to slice into the taped edge of the box, he looked at Mickey to make sure he was watching, then he flipped the lid open to reveal two Beyond Blue stargazer lilies.

Ian looked quickly at Mickey to make sure this wasn’t going to start a rant about stabbing old ladies, but he only smiled and pulled one out of the box. “Shit, they’re beautiful. How the fuck did nature ever create something like that?”

Mandy must have done some serious legwork to find these flowers because they really were a perfect blend of royal blue and violet. Ian picked the other one up and sniffed it. “Oh, that’s spicy.”

Mickey sniffed then nodded. “Need to put them in water.”

“Read the card first.”

He ripped into the envelope, tossing it aside as they looked at the two stick men in tuxedos and top hats on the front of the card. After opening it, he leaned into Ian a little to read.

“Congrats! If there’s one thing I know for sure, you two assholes belong together, so don’t forget over the next 50 years how fucking lucky you are. Also don’t forget that I’ve got a spare bedroom when the State of Illinois lets you leave. Sun’s always shining. In the meantime, Sandy and I found you the PERFECT wedding night getaway. It’s as gay as you guys are! Love, Mandy.”

Ian tsked. “Apparently, Mandy doesn’t know you aren’t gay. Maybe I should tell her you only like having my dick in your ass.”

“It’s time I came out about that,” he nodded, then lifted his brows at the two new arrivals who stopped at their table. “Fellas.”

Liam waved and Carl dumped a box in front of them. It was covered with princess wrapping paper. “Your wedding present.”

Ian slid the box toward Mickey to open.

“Frank and I got you guys something else,” Liam said. “That is _not_ from me.”

Ian placed a hand on top of Mickey’s. “Is it safe to open here?”

“Sure,” Carl said, and Liam shook his head.

Mickey didn’t seem worried and ripped the paper off in one movement. The four of them looked at the jacked dude on the front of the box. “Gummi underwear?” Mickey said.

“Yeah,” Carl snickered. “I was gonna get you the _brief_ jerky underwear but they were sold out. And don’t worry, this is a two pack so you both get a chance to try it out.”

Carl was grinning from ear to ear, and Ian laughed at Mickey’s scowl. “Thanks Carl, we’ll be sure to put these to good use.”

“Yeah, we might accidentally try it out in _your_ bedroom,” Mickey said, but he smiled a little. “Now, go get me a fucking beer, shithead.”

Carl sauntered away, and they turned their attention back to Liam.

“You went in on a gift with Frank?” Ian asked, shaking his head. “I thought I told you not to trust the bastard.”

“I conned him into coming and bringing some rich lady’s Mercedes convertible that’s now your honeymoon car.”

“You did what?” Ian asked.

“Your car is parked out front for when you’re ready to leave,” he explained. “You’ll recognize it cause it’s the only one that says _just married_ on it.”

Ian stood up. “Come here, kid.” He pulled the boy into his arms, dropping a kiss to his head in the process.

“That’s really fucking cool,” Mickey said. “How'd I not think of that?"

Carl returned then with Mickey’s beer. “Fiona wants me to send her a video of the cake cutting. She’s been bugging me all day for pictures of shit.”

“We can do that now, right?” Ian looked at Mickey for approval. “I’ll tell the DJ to announce it.”

They reconvened near the back of the hall with the cake, half the wedding guests and the photographer.

“Fiona outdid herself,” Ian said, eyes traveling over the four tiers of white icing until they landed on the cake topper. “At least it’s accurate.”

“How the fuck would she know that?”

“We lived together under the same roof, Mickey. I think everyone knows.”

Huffing, Mickey grabbed the knife, whistling lowly as he hefted the weight in his hand. The forged steel reflected off the overhead light and the chestnut handle molded to Mickey’s hand. “Now that’s a fucking knife. Could really stab a bitch with this.”

Ian smiled at an older couple who were watching from the sidelines, hoping they didn’t call the police and report a thug in their midst. “Who’s that?” he whispered to Mickey.

“Mrs. Shevchenko and her plus one.”

“Oh,” Ian smiled again and waved at the woman who had cared for a little Mickey when he needed a place to stay.

“Ready, Carl?” Mickey asked, waving the knife a little too gleefully. Both Carl and the photographer were already snapping pictures.

“I was born ready.”

Ian laughed. “Actually, you were born premature and didn’t come home for a month.”

Carl shrugged. “I was just enjoying all the attention from the hot nurses.”

“All you Gallaghers are perverts,” Mickey decided and slid the blade into the cake. Ian placed a hand on Mickey’s lower back and leaned in close to watch the second cut, mouth watering a little over either the sight of the cake or the sight of Mickey enjoying himself.

Grabbing the cake server, Ian lifted the piece out and onto a waiting plate. He held it up for examination, and Carl snapped a picture of the two layers, one dark and one white. “I’m supposed to tell you that she wasn’t able to get all 26 flavors of chocolate but she did manage to get eight of them.”

“Looks delicious. Let’s try it, Mick.” He passed him a fork and picked up his own. “We gotta feed each other.”

“Yeah, yeah, but we _don’t_ gotta shove the cake in each other’s faces.”

“No, definitely not,” Ian agreed with a grin as he slid the fork into the moist cake and lifted out a forkful of both flavors. “I think that's cheesecake.”

Mickey loaded up his fork and held it out. When Ian leaned in slowly, he gave him ample opportunity to smear chocolate on Ian’s nose if he wanted to, but the fork remained still. Instead of opening his mouth though, Ian moved around the fork and found Mickey’s mouth, sweeping his tongue around Mickey’s before pulling back and making eye contact. Then he licked his lips, smacking them together.

“Okay, ready for cake now.” He opened his mouth and Mickey slid the fork between his lips. While salty sweetness spread over his tongue, he fed Mickey his bite. It was so good that they each took a full piece before passing the cake cutting over to the catering staff to serve.

“You get enough pictures for Fi?” Ian asked Carl when he grabbed the first piece of cake the server dished out.

“Think so, and I’m supposed to tell you,” Carl paused to look at Mickey directly. “She also got you a wedding gift, but you're not supposed to use it as a weapon.”

Then he walked away, and they finished their cake while chatting with guests. After the tables were pushed aside and lights dimmed, the DJ invited the grooms to the dance floor. They faced each other in the empty space until Ian stepped forward, placing his right hand on Mickey’s lower back and raising his left. He could feel Mickey relax just a little when he rested his hand in Ian’s.

They’d talked about this and acknowledged that Mickey was always happiest when Ian took charge of stuff like this. Not that they were going to wow the wedding guests with any fancy footwork. Ian literally only had one foot at the moment and Mickey claimed to have two lefts.

So when _Livin’ on a Prayer_ started playing and the acoustic guitar filled the hall, they simply swayed, slowly turning in a safe circle. They’d found a slow version of the song sung by the man himself instead of tracking down a soloist since the money had finally run out.

Ian rested his temple against Mickey's, tucking their hands into his chest. “Close your eyes. I got this,” he whispered, waiting to feel him relax in his arms. “We’re all the way there now.”

[Gallavich slow dance at their wedding courtesy of Tue](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dixJ_GUKgwM&list=PLpwjzlSVwVtxGPhjkb7BhIT6yF1tfMwY7&index=73)

[Ian and Mickey drive off with the car courtesy of Tue](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qbcHqQxgAx4&list=PLpwjzlSVwVtxGPhjkb7BhIT6yF1tfMwY7&index=74)

**Lake Shore Drive North**

Holding the paper close to his face, Mickey followed the crudely drawn map that Lip had handed to them on their way out of The Polish Doll. “Take a left under that footbridge.”

The Mercedes crawled along the rutted road for another quarter mile, over a path of yellow and red leaves until they finally reached the city skyline. Willis Tower to their left and Hancock Center to the right. The setting sun between them and the cool open air around them.

“Shit,” Ian breathed, putting the car in park. “I guess this is it, huh?”

“Must be.”

“What else does his note say?” Ian yanked it out of Mickey’s grip with a grin. “It says to check the glove compartment.”

Waving toward it, Ian gave Mickey an expectant look and got the finger in return, but he popped the button and the little door dropped open to reveal two sleek black metal flasks. He passed them to Ian and extracted two cigars, a cutter and a butane lighter as well.

Ian held up the flasks, each engraved with a stylized I & M 2020. “Let’s get comfy before we dig in.” He dropped the flasks in the backseat and maneuvered his walking boot around the steering wheel so he could hop over the seat, landing on the soft leather. With his arm resting along the back seat, he gave Mickey a come hither look. “Hurry, while there’s still some sunset.”

Adjusting the lever on the driver’s seat, Mickey pushed it forward to give Ian room to stretch out his leg, then he hopped over and tucked into Ian’s side, resting his back against Ian’s chest and crossing his ankles over the edge of the car door.

“I might come to respect your goddamn brother one day,” Mickey teased.

“I assume you are referring to Carl.”

Laughing, Mickey tore into the first cigar eagerly, placing the capped end into the cutter and snapping it off. He handed it to Ian then unwrapped the second one.

“You done this before?” Ian asked.

“Sure, Terry's brothers all smoke them. You never had a cigar?”

“Actually, no. Tried a cigarillo once but never a cigar that needed to be snipped like that.”

“You married a class act, Ian. Better get used to it.”

The both froze and Ian’s hand dropped from the seat to Mickey’s chest. “Fuck, we’re married. Holy shit.”

Mickey’s stomach actually clenched and he had to swallow. “Gimme one of those flasks.”

“Yeah, good call.” Ian reached awkwardly around Mickey to flip the lid on the first one and they each took a swig from it.

“Jamieson.” Mickey ran his tongue over his lip in appreciation, and Ian kissed the crown of his head as he dropped the other flask into Mickey’s lap.

“So how do you light this thing?” He twirled the cigar between his fingers while Mickey prepped his.

“If you don’t have matches, then you gotta have a butane lighter so it doesn’t taste like lighter fluid.” Flipping up the lid on the lighter with one flick of his wrist, Mickey ran his thumb over the wheel and a burst of flame appeared. “Philip knows his stuff.”

Mickey held his cigar above the flame, rotating it for a few seconds. “Gotta dry it out a bit before lighting it,” he explained, slipping it between his lips and puffing. Once it was fully lit, he held the lighter up to Ian. “Don’t fucking inhale or you’ll be sick.”

Ian held it briefly above the flame then leaned in to puff. It forced Ian’s body close to Mickey’s and made the evening that much better.

Leaning back into his seat, Ian blew smoke into the night sky, and Mickey tipped his head to watch him. “Married life is all right,” Ian declared.

They sipped their whisky, smoked their cigars and watched the sun set. As their first act as married men, it wasn’t too fucking bad at all.

After a few minutes of quiet, they snipped the lit ends of their cigars and Mickey set them on the dashboard. Ian shifted a little so Mickey ended up with his head in Ian’s lap, looking up at the stars, and he unhooked a button on Mickey’s dress shirt. “I wish I could tell 15 year old Ian that this is how it was going to end up.”

“So he could torture 16 year old Mickey with that information?”

Ian continued unhooking buttons until he could slip his fingers under the material and warm them on Mickey’s chest. “I’d also let that Mickey know that we are going to break our record tonight.”

“Mm, you think you got 7 rounds in you, tough guy.”

“Why don’t you bring your neck up here and find out if my sex hormones have been released.”

When Ian giggled down at him with his hair falling forward a little, Mickey’s stomach clenched again and Ian’s smile slowly slipped from him face, replaced by that look he got when he was going to fuck Mickey until he begged him to stop.

“Here?” Mickey asked, sitting up slowly. There wasn’t a car in sight, but they were also completely exposed in the backseat of a convertible. Mickey swallowed as he turned toward Ian, allowing him to manhandle Mickey into his lap. Once he’d pulled Mickey’s knees around his hips, Ian sat up straight, fingers on the remaining buttons, mouth on his throat.

Mickey wrapped his arms around Ian’s neck, holding him close and adjusting until he could feel Ian’s dick pressing into him. Once he had the dress shirt open, Ian’s hand moved down to his pants, tugging at the button while his mouth sucked almost painfully at Mickey’s throat and chest.

“There’s lube in the bag,” Ian said. “Grab it.”

Reaching over the front seat, Mickey found the zipper on the overnight bag. While digging around for the container, Ian tugged at his pants, exposing his ass to the night air. “Fuck, man.”

“Oh yeah,” Ian moaned, pulling Mickey’s ass cheeks apart and blowing on his hole.

“We’re gonna get arrested for indecency.” Mickey found the lube and tried to scurry back into Ian’s lap, but Ian’s hands held him in place.

“Pass me the lube,” Ian demanded and his breath continued to torture Mickey. “Now.”

Mickey passed it back and listened for the sound of the bottle opening. His head dropped forward in defeat at that point, and he waited for Ian’s fingers, for the smooth slide of him entering his body.

“ _Ahhhhh_ ,” he groaned.

“This is the fucking view I need every time, Mickey.”

Imagining what it must look like, he pushed back onto Ian's fingers, fucking against them because his body knew how to respond to Ian. “Okay, let’s go.”

“Soon,” Ian laughed. “I’m not quite ready. You can't rush me.”

“Fuck you taking about rushing? Feels like my ass has been on display forever." He tried to look back at Ian but got another finger instead and Mickey forgot what _he_ was talking about.

“Okay, I’m ready now,” Ian announced, slipping out of Mickey’s body and pulling his hips back to Ian’s lap. Trying to keep up, Mickey shoved at his pants, but Ian spread his ass cheeks and lowered him onto his slicked up cock.

Mickey grasped the door and Ian shifted his hips away, letting Mickey relax his weight until Ian was buried inside him. The angle was so intense for both of them that they barely had to move. Ian tightened his fist around Mickey and his other hand held Mickey’s hips still, while Ian’s shifted enough that they were both panting.

“I love fucking you,” Ian breathed into his back and Mickey covered Ian’s hand, pumping up into it as he groaned through his orgasm. There was a whirlwind of activity around him then he waited for Ian to still.

“Love fucking you too.”

  
[by Steorie](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/steorie)

**Southern Comfort Motel**

“Holy shit,” Ian panted, laying spread eagle on the satin sheets. “I might not survive our wedding night.”

“Would that be a bad thing?” Mickey was somewhere in the bedroom but Ian was too tired to search for him.

“Where are you?” When he got no response, Ian opened his eyes to find Mickey digging in their overnight back. “How the fuck do you have energy to stand up?”

“It’s called stamina, Ian.”

Laughing, Ian patted the bed. “Get back here. You’re not allowed to leave my reach until we head home tomorrow. It’s your husbandly duty.”

“You also said it was my husbandly duty to buy you a wedding present.”

Ian’s eyes popped open again. “What? Really?”

“Move your ass over. You’re not a fucking king.”

With the wedding planner in hand, he returned to the bed, laying down on his stomach and flipping open to a blank page. He clicked the end of the mechanical pencil and looked at Ian expectantly.

“You gonna write me a porn novel?” Ian asked. “I promise not to throw _mine_ away.”

Kicking Ian lightly in the shin, Mickey fluttered his fingers in Ian’s face. “Shut up and pay attention.”

Ian flipped onto his stomach too. He’d been teasing Mickey about the present, but now that there was a surprise coming, he was feeling pretty damned excited. “Okay, I’m ready.”

Pressing the tip of the pencil to the paper, Mickey drew a random rectangular-ish shape on the page, the sides uneven and somewhat jagged.

“What is this?” Ian asked, really curious now.

“Your new tattoo.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, and that,” he tapped the shape, “is an outline of the South Side.”

“Okay, yeah, I see it.” He traced the lines on the page. “The river, Lake Michigan, the Loop.”

“Yeah, and we fill in the space with _our_ South Side.”

Ian looked at him then down at the pencil as it moved on the page.

“The Gallagher house in the center of course.” He drew an exaggerated version of their home, complete with rickety front steps. “Garfield Park little league and the dugouts.”

They smiled at each other when Mickey added a baseball bat.

“Abandoned buildings, of course.” He penciled them in then paused to look closely at Ian. “Cemetery where Monica is buried.”

Ian kissed his shoulder, then left his cheek resting there, while Mickey continued to sketch, shading in patches and erasing bits he didn't like until the shape was filled with stylized versions of the streets they called home. “Even included the fucking Polish Doll, man.”

“Our neighborhood,” Ian said quietly.

“Our lives.” Mickey set the book aside. "You happy?"

Rolling onto his side, Ian dragged Mickey into his arms then pulled the satin sheets over their exhausted bodies.

"I was happy most of the time in prison because I was with you, so this is a walk in the park." They shared a lingering kiss then closed their eyes. "Are you happy, Mickey?"

"Course, I am." He sniffed and Ian recognized it as his attempt to rein in his emotions.

"Good night, Mr. Gallagher."

"Good night, Mr. Milkovich."

[”Good morning, Mr Gallavich” courtesy of Tue](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hd1knIqxtEE&list=PLpwjzlSVwVtxGPhjkb7BhIT6yF1tfMwY7&index=75)


End file.
